


After the War - Drift

by HiddenDirector



Series: After the War [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Jazz/Prowl is in the past, M/M, Nothing actually shown, Post Season 3 Finale, Post-Canon, Since this is canon-compliant, So Prowl is dead, but it's implied, giant monster violence, nothing too graphic though, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-31 09:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6464695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenDirector/pseuds/HiddenDirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz is called to the Alkaline Dojo by Dai Atlas, presumably to see how the rebuilding is coming along.  While he's there, however, he meets a young mech named Drift.  Dai Atlas reveals that he needs help getting this young student-to-be to open up or he's afraid he can't help him overcome his demons to become a proper cyberninja.</p><p>The deeper Jazz digs into Drift's past, though, the more apparent it becomes that his demons aren't just real, they are likely looking for him.  And if they find him, all of Alkaline could be in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to write this after reading the Complete Allspark Almanac's version of Drift. I kind of fell in love with their depiction of his character in it. I'm going to be making this into a series about various characters who never got a chance to appear post-season 3 with the cancellation of season 4. So far I plan on doing Drift, First Aid (and the Protectobots), Metalhawk, and Ironfist.
> 
> The rating I chose is for future chapters with violent flashbacks.

Jazz never thought he’d step foot into the Alkaline Dojo again.  Even less that it would be under such circumstances.

He had been called in by Dai Atlas, the mech working at renewing interest in the study of the cyber martial arts and in doing so reestablish the Cyber-Ninja Corps.  He had great respect for the older mech, being as he was a student of Yoketron long before he was and one of his prized pupils.  There was no doubt in the white-plated mech that Dai Atlas would do their mutual sensei proud.

“Jazz, thank you for coming,” the older mech greeted, bowing low.  He was an intimidating bot, larger than Jazz with huge drills adorning his shoulderplates.  He was someone to be respected rather than feared, however, as the music loving Autobot had long since learned.  This wasn’t his first time meeting the other bot, after all, being as Dai Atlas used to be Ultra Magnus’s right-servo mech.  When Sentinel ascended to the position of Magnus, however, Dai Atlas bowed away from the position.  Jazz didn’t blame him, having left his place as Sentinel’s lackey himself.

“Anytime,” Jazz returned the gesture.  “The place looks great.  I almost can’t believe no one’s been runnin’ it since Yoketron passed.”

“I have the credits to spare, and there is nowhere I would rather spend them.  Other than the Elite Guard, this is the place I have always felt I began making the most of myself.  I know you feel the same, as have many other bots who needed a push in the right direction.  Yoketron provided the perfect place for the lost,” the former Elite Guard member waved inside of the refurbished building.  Everything looked as good as new.

Even though there were those who showed interest in the cyber martial arts after Yoketron offlined, there was simply no one to teach them.  It was at the height of the Great War, everyone was busy fighting Decepticons.  And so the dojo had gone for millions of years into disrepair, the only bots keeping it from falling completely apart Warpath and a few other students who would return and leave offerings for their fallen master.

“So, what am I here to see?  Can’t imagine you just wanted to show me the new digs,” Jazz asked, following him while looking at the décor.  Dai Atlas had both all of the remaining old art and old weapons adorning the walls polished and placed, but had acquired some new the younger ninja had never seen before.  “Not that it doesn’t look nice, Yoketron woulda loved this.”  _So would Prowl,_ his processor added, though he didn’t say it out loud.  It’d been three decacycles since the memorial for his fallen bondmate, but such wounds didn’t heal easy.

“Thank you, I appreciate that far more than you know,” Dai Atlas smiled.  “Then you should like this.”  He led the younger ninja into the back, where holoprojectors displayed all of Yoketron’s best students.  There were now two new additions, though.

The air caught in Jazz’s vents as he stepped inside and looked up.  Along with the busts of the students, himself included, there were now two full-body additions.  Yoketron and Prowl were immortalized in front of the far wall, which used to open into the vault that held the hidden protoforms before Lockdown had stolen them.  Both stood tall and elegant, life-sized monuments to the two most important bots that had ever entered the black and white mech’s lifecycle.

“May I take it that you like them, then?” the black and blue mech behind him mused.

“I… its perfect.  Where did you get them, though?”

Dai Atlas walked past him, approaching the projectors.  “I found them.  Yoketron had them in his berth chambers on the second floor.  He had full-body projectors for all of the students here, which I suspect means that he intended for these to be cropped as busts for when Prowl had graduated and someone else took over his teachings.  I thought keeping them as they were was far more appropriate, however.  After all, they both deserved so much greater than to become just another face to admire.”

Jazz chuckled and joined him by the projectors.  Being as these were taken when Prowl was still a student here, he was a much younger model than when the music lover had known him.  He could still see all of the same signs of the Prowl he loved, though.  It took a lot of resistance not to reach out and try to embrace what he knew was merely an incorporeal image.  “I’m sure Yoketron would appreciate this.  Prowl… well, he didn’t like this kind of attention so much, but I’m sure he’d understand.  I want people to know everything he sacrificed to do what was right.  It’s the hardest lesson for anyone to learn.”

“He will be honored for the hero he is here,” Dai Atlas assured him.

Jazz stared at the image a few more nanokliks before starting to turn and leave.  Before he got far, though, he felt that someone was watching them.  Someone nervous.  “Dai-“

The older mech put a servo on his shoulder, glancing sideways at him.  His optics said it all.  He knew they were being watched.  “I know, Jazz,” he said pointedly.  “I understand if you need a bit of time.  I will take my leave.  Feel free to do so when you are ready.”

“…yeah,” the younger ninja answered.  If the bot watching them was a threat, Dai Atlas would have indicated so.  He was signaling that it was someone he knew.  Someone he didn’t want to scare off.  Jazz was starting to get an inkling of why he was asked to come here, other than to see the monument to his bondmate.

Dai Atlas nodded, bowing slightly and leaving the room.

Jazz watched him go, and then turned back to the holographic image of the black and gold ninja that had held his spark.  What he wouldn’t give for that static image to come to life.  To smile at him, jump off of the projector and hold him, laughing.  The black and white mech looked down at his own servos, which were balled into fists at his sides as he controlled his composure.  He was so distracted by his emotions he almost missed the movement behind him.  As soon as he detected it, though, he whipped around.

The ninja almost regretted his sudden movement, as the younger mech standing behind him jerked as if fighting the urge to flee again.  He didn’t look any older than the projected image of Prowl on Jazz’s other side.  Otherwise, though, he couldn’t have looked less like the now deceased ninjabot.  His paint job gleamed white with red details that were shaped to give him an even slimmer appearance than he already had.  His sharp helm and shoulderplates evoked a youthful appearance.  It took the older mech a moment to recognize the same body-type Blurr had.

“Who’re you?  Master Dai Atlas respected you,” the youngster finally spoke, watching warily.

“Master?  You’re a student here?” Jazz couldn’t help but sound surprised.  “I thought the dojo wasn’t opened to students yet.”

“It’s not.  _I’m_ not,” the other mech said defensively.  “Not really.  Not yet.  This isn’t about me.  I asked you a question.”

“Sorry, I’m Jazz.  I used to be a student myself here, under Master Yoketron.  See?”  Jazz nodded down the line of holograms towards his own.  “Now, who’re you, ‘not-really-a-student’ bot?”

The younger mech, who had been looking down to where he’d indicated, snapped his attention back at the words.  He bristled, and at that moment Jazz changed his opinion on him looking nothing like Prowl.  That one motion made him look almost _exactly_ like the black and gold mech.  “Drift.  Not that it’s any of your business.  I just wanted to know what Master Dai Atlas was doing.  He usually spends all his time fussing over one detail or another with this old dump.”

“Hey, hey, watch what you’re callin’ a dump, kid,” Jazz put his servos on his hips, leaning forward so that he came to optic-level with the younger.  “I spent the best solars of my lifecycle in this place, ya dig?”

Drift leaned forward himself, so that his faceplate was a mere inches from the other’s.  His face contorted into a challenging look.  It felt familiar.  Not the ‘Prowl’ familiar his bristling was, but something… _dangerous_ familiar.  “You must not have had a very interesting lifecycle, then,” he hissed.  This was a kid who obviously didn’t like feeling threatened.

“Maybe not, but at least I didn’t spend it insultin’ strangers in a half-finished dojo,” the music lover smirked.  “It’s a good thing you’re here, cause obviously you need to find somethin’ to do with _your_ lifecycle.”  The words felt weird coming from his own vocals, considering before he joined the Alkaline Dojo he’d heard them so many times.

The younger not-quite-ninja’s optics narrowed, mouth opening for a retort before a vocal unit reset at the door.  He stopped and turned quickly, trying conspicuously to hide his guilt.  Dai Atlas had reappeared there, raising an optic ridge at the two in the middle of the room.  “Drift, are you bothering my guest?” he asked.

Drift opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again, looking at the floor.  “Sorry, sensei…” he muttered.  He scuffed the floor with a pede.  He looked less like a soon-to-be ninja-in-training and more like a youngling caught with his servos in the energon goody jar.

“I gave you a job.  I told you that if you were going to stay here at the dojo you would have to earn your keep, did I not?”

“Yes, sensei.”

“And what did I ask you to do?”

“…”

“ _Drift._ ”

“…clean the sitting room.”

“And why are you not doing so?”

“I… I’ll get right on that, sensei.”

Jazz watched the young mech leave quickly, helm bowed low.  As soon as he was gone, the black and white mech took a breath and shook his helm.  “That’s quite the kid you picked up, mech.  Was lookin’ for a fight without even knowin’ who I am.”

“I’m working on that with him.  He’s not a bad kid, just… confused.  Wing found him floating around in space in an escape ship,” Dai Atlas seemed to hesitate in telling the whole story.  After a nanoklik he looked at Jazz, who raised an optic ridge.  “He was in a Decepticon escape ship.”

“He escaped a Decepticon ship?” Jazz asked in surprise.  “That kinda thing could mess someone up bad, being a ‘Con prisoner.”

“No, Jazz.  He wasn’t a prisoner.  He was a Decepticon.”

It took a few kliks for that information to fully process in Jazz’s helm.  “He’s a _‘Con_?  What’s he doin’ here?”

“He’s not a Decepticon.  Not anymore,” the older mech ex-vented, trying to find a way to explain this.  “We don’t know what happened.  Not even who he was.  He’s not in any of our records.  He won’t talk about any of it.  He simply… shuts down whenever someone tries to get any information about it.  However, he also has expressed no desire to return to them.  I believe him, that he wants nothing to do with it anymore.  If he were a spy he would have embraced becoming an Autobot.  But he doesn’t even seem to completely want that, either.  I told him if he wanted to avoid prison, he would need to be reformatted for it, though.  It took him almost two decacycles sitting in a holding cell before he agreed.  He is really conflicted about everything he’s doing, everything he’s been through.  When I asked why he became an Autobot when he despises them so much, he said he would rather betray everything he believed, everything he stood for, than stay in a prison full of Decepticons.”

“Crazy,” Jazz muttered.  “You really gonna put him through ninja trainin’?  Doesn’t sound like the kind of mech who would do well with that kinda strict trainin’.”

“I know one other mech who could have been described the same when he first arrived here,” Dai Atlas nodded behind the music enthusiast, who turned to the hologram of his bondmate.  “When Prowl was in his care, Yoketron would speak highly of him.  However, he would openly admit that he was the most stubborn youngling he’d ever had the privilege of training, calling him undisciplined and wild.”

“Never would guess it if you knew him as short of time as I did,” Jazz smiled.  Prowl didn’t keep his behavior when he was younger a secret.  He was a rebel, believed if he kept out of the Great War it wouldn’t have to affect him.  He would acknowledge how foolish such sentiment was once he was much older, but it was only thanks to the rigorous training he went through at Yoketron’s servos.  “I get your point.  Some discipline, humble him a bit, and he’ll calm right down.  Hopefully.  Or he could turn out like me.”

“We could only be so lucky, Jazz.  Cybertron could use more mechs like you,” Dai Atlas laughed, slapping him on the shoulderplate.  “I’m not hoping for a miracle of Primus, but it would be nice if you could at least get him to open up about himself.  I’m not Master Yoketron, as much as I would like to one day come close.  If I cannot get him to open up to someone, if I cannot _know_ him at least a little, I don’t know if I can help him as much as he needs it.”

Jazz smiled, nodding.  “Alright, I dig.  You know, Master Yoketron would be proud.  You sound more like him than you realize.”

“Thank you.  That means a lot.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz tries again with Drift, with varying results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story mentioned in this, Once Upon a Hill of Scrap, is one I mentioned in Snow back on FF. I actually created it with the purpose of its contents becoming important in Control, but that fanfic ended up getting kind of put on semi-permanent hiatus when I started working on other ones. You'll get bits and pieces of it throughout the entire After the War series, as it will have at least some importance to each story. I'm also kind of making up the history of Alkaline and the dojo in this story, since it's the main setting of it.

Jazz returned to the dojo less than a deca-cycle later.  He wanted to give Drift a few solars to cool down after their first meeting.  They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, after all.  If he was going to help the young mech, he was going to need him to get comfortable.

After greeting Dai Atlas, who was talking to a few young bots he easily identified as interested future students, he went off in search of the soon-to-be apprentice.  He could have just asked the Elite mech where Drift was, but he would rather have found him.  Seeking him out showed commitment to the promise he’d made.

He looked through most of the building before checking the back courtyard through one of the upper-level windows.  It’d really been on a hunch more than anything else, figuring if he couldn’t be found inside logically he had to be out there somewhere.  Sure enough, sitting on the edge of the techno-organic garden they’d replanted in the back was the sharp-framed white mech.  He was leaning against a metallic statue of the dojo’s founder, Yamaton.  Jazz always appreciated the unique twist the native citizens of Alkaline had to their designations.  Unfortunately that twist, and the last spark-line, ended with Yoketron and Prowl.  From what he could tell, the two had been the only members of the ancient spark-line of Alkaline’s native bots left.  And now it was completely gone.  Though there may be those who continued the traditions and cultural practices, it was something they could never bring back.

It was one of the small things he felt deep regret over losing Prowl for.  There were many things so much bigger, but the idea that they couldn’t save the Alkaline spark-line was engrained there every time he saw the rich, unique culture they had built.

Jazz made his way back down, approaching the younger mech as he walked across the courtyard.  The place was almost ready to open, he could tell.  It didn’t look exactly like when Yoketron had been running it, but that wasn’t a bad thing.  It was time for Dai Atlas to run things how he thought best.  The most important thing about the dojo passing from one bot to another was how they reinterpreted their teaching methods.

“Hey, mech,” the white and black ninja greeted as he got closer.

Drift looked up from his datapad in surprise.  “Oh, it’s you,” he muttered, turning the datapad off.  He sat up, crossing his legs underneath himself.

“Don’t sound too happy to see me, now.  It might go to my head,” Jazz smirked, sitting down on the ledge the statue was upon next to him.  “What’re you doin’ out here?  Dai Atlas lettin’ you take a break?”

“Can’t spend all my time cleaning.  I’d go completely crazy,” the younger ninja-to-be said, shrugging.  “What’re you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d check out how things are turnin’ out.  Told you before, remember?  Spent the most important solars of my lifecycle here.”

“Right.  You did.”  Drift looked away from him uncomfortably, running his servos across the datapad in his hands.  Jazz didn’t force him to say anything, waiting for him to take the first step.  “I’m sorry.  About last time, I mean.  I didn’t mean to be so… rude.”

“Not a problem,” Jazz waved a hand.  He meant it, he hadn’t actually been that upset by the kid’s words.  Drift was likely just apologizing because Dai Atlas probably told him to, from how stilted it came out.  It was a step in the right direction, though.  “What’re you readin’?  You seem more like the kinda mech who’d rather run around doin’ stuff on his day off, not sittin’ around.”

The younger mech set his jaw, which didn’t look too intimidating with his young features.  Still, the dangerous look came back into his optics.  “You don’t know anything about me.  Don’t go making assumptions.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to,” Jazz raised his hands in peace.  “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

Drift looked down to the datapad, handing it to him instead of answering.

The older ninja turned it on.  It took a bit longer to boot up than he was used to.  The entire thing he realized looked like it was worn and scratched to pit.  The screen itself wasn’t the worst he had seen, and he could still read it, but he was surprised by the state of it.  When it finally loaded to the passage Drift had been on, he didn’t even need to back out to the title screen to know what it was.  He’d know this story anywhere.  “Once Upon a Hill of Scrap.  This is a classic.  How many times have you read it?”

“This is still my first,” Drift answered, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees.  “Wing gave it to me.  I wasn’t able to keep it with me when I was…”  He trailed off and looked away uncomfortable.  “Well, it was a couple orbitals before I could actually get back to reading it.  When he gave it to me it was already on a later passage, and I found my favorite line before I even started reading it.  ‘For now he escaped from turmoil…’”

Before he could finish, Jazz did it for him.  “‘…only to be left to…’”  He paused when he looked back up at the young mech, coming to a realization.  “…drift.  You… you didn’t tell him your name until he gave you this, did you?”

Drift shifted, resetting his vocals.  “How much has Master Dai Atlas told you?” he asked.

“Enough.  He’s concerned that he can’t teach you right until he knows more,” Jazz answered, choosing not to lie to the young mech.  He obviously had a lot of trust issues, and exacerbating them wouldn’t be favorable to getting him to open up.

“I don’t see how it’s any of his business,” the ninja-to-be snapped, swiping the datapad back and standing up.  “I did what everyone asked.  I reformatted.  I slapped on a fragging Autobot badge.  I’ve been helping get this place back up and running.  Why should who I was before now matter?”

“Drift, there’s a lot more to bein’ an Autobot than wearin’ a badge and hangin’ out with other ones.  Ya need trust us, and we need to trust you back.”

“I only became an Autobot so I won’t have to ‘hang out’ with the ‘Cons in Trypticon Prison!  Primus, why does it matter to everyone?!”

Jazz noticed Drift’s frame shudder in some kind of restraint as he turned on his heelstrut and retreated back into the dojo.  He sighed and covered his faceplate with a hand.  This was going to be a long process.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz goes to see Optimus, who is visiting Rodimus Prime at Iacon Central Repairs.

It was later that lunar cycle, when Jazz was about to retire to his berth, that he decided to pay a visit to Optimus Prime.  The blue and red mech and his team were staying on the planet for the time being, planning on returning to Earth after they saw to whatever business they had on Cybertron.  Optimus himself had promised his best friend, Rodimus, that he would stay as long as it took him to recover the rest of the way from his experience with Cosmic Rust.  He was mostly recuperated, not a speck of the disease showing at this point, but Red Alert wanted to keep him on hand while he was in remission.

“Jazz!” Rodimus waved at him from the recovery berth, sitting up.  “Long time, no see!”

“Hey, Rodimus,” the music-lover smiled as he walked in.  “Thought I’d stop by to see how you’re doin’ and talk to O.P. for a bit.”

“That’s okay, we were just discussing what we’re going to do when I get out of here,” the red and orange mech shrugged.

Optimus was sitting in a chair next to the berth, leaning against it with one arm.  “We were thinking of finally-” he started before the perfectionist cut him off.

“Finally going through the bonding ceremony!” Rodimus announced enthusiastically.  He threw his arms around Optimus’s shoulders as the red and blue mech’s faceplate turned bright red.  “I want a Crystal City ceremony.  It’ll be so romantic, getting officially bonded there in the light of Primus.”

“Do you have to do this every time?” Optimus asked in exasperation, covering his faceplate with embarrassment.  “Rodimus is teasing, we’re _not_ like that.  No matter how many times he insists it.”

“I know, you remind us every time he gets like this,” Jazz said in amusement, leaning on the door frame.  “Come on, Rodimus, let O.P. jive.”

The archer sighed dramatically, letting go and falling back onto the berth so he was sprawled out.  “Fiiiiine,” he conceded.  “I’ve been so boooooored here, though.  Everyone’s busy and Optimus is the only one who ever visits, and it’s not often enough for me.  All I’ve got to occupy myself with is reading and watching some old holovids.”

Jazz looked to the bedside table where there was a pile of datapads.  Looking at it reminded him of his conversation with Drift earlier.  “Hey, you got Once Upon a Hill of Scrap in there?  Optimus told us it’s your favorite story.”

“Yeah, hold on,” Rodimus reached back and pulled the pile off the table.  He flipped through them quickly, looking at the label on top of each one as he did.  “No… no… no… oh, here it is.”  He handed the pad to the cyberninja.  “Looking to read it?”

“I’ve read it a couple times, but somethin’ came up and I wanna flip through it again.  Ya mind if I borrow it?” Jazz asked.

“Sure, go for it.  I’ve read it so much I could recite it in recharge,” Rodimus grinned.

“What’s happened?  Is it why you wanted to talk to me?” Optimus asked.

“Yeah, kind of,” Jazz nodded.  “I was just wonderin’ if you had a timeline on when we’re goin’ back to Earth.  I’m helpin’ Dai Atlas at the dojo right now, and hopin’ I still got plenty of time.”

“Well, Rodimus is expected to be released within the deca-cycle,” Optimus said.  “When he does Red Alert will be freed up from that, but she has a few other things she wants to take care of before we leave.  Ironhide is ready to go anytime, as is Bumblebee and Sari.  So really, we’re just waiting on Red Alert.  I’d say somewhere around the next deca-cycle and a half, maybe.  That’s just estimation.”

“Dang, I don’t know if I’ll get him to open up that fast…” the cyberninja muttered, sitting on the repair berth.

“Him?” Rodimus smirked, flipping over onto his front.  He raised an optic ridge.  “Jazz, you holding out on us?  Got a romantic prospect?  Do tell.”

Optimus’s vents caught in awkward surprise, looking from Rodimus to Jazz, whose faceplate dimmed at the question.  He had forgotten in everything that happened in the last few Earth-months that Rodimus didn’t know about Jazz gaining a bondmate in Prowl… and then losing him not long afterwards.

The red and orange mech was catching on, though, as the smile faded from his faceplate.  He looked between the two, amusement turning to concern.  “…what?  What did I say?”

“I… _had_ a bondmate.  For all of three orbital cycles.  He… he offlined to save another planet,” Jazz said, looking at the floor.

“Prowl,” Optimus elaborated.  “You didn’t meet him, but we’ve talked about him.  He even saved my life one more time during that last battle.”

“The mech who gave his lifecycle to bring back the AllSpark?” Rodimus’s optics widened, mouth falling open.  “I… Primus, I’m so sorry, Jazz.  I didn’t know.  No one told me.”

“Yeah, things have been a bit… distracting ever since,” the cyberninja reset his vocals.

“Great, now I feel like an aft.  Me and my big mouth,” Rodimus muttered, letting his faceplate fall into his folded arms.

“Nah, like you said, you didn’t know,” Jazz assured him, forcing a smile.  “Don’t worry about it.  Look, how ‘bout I tell you mechs about the kid I met at the dojo and maybe you can give me an idea of what to do for him.”

Rodimus raised his helm and Optimus leaned forward, listening as Jazz recounted everything that happened during both times he met Drift.  When he was done telling them the story, Optimus looked thoughtful.  “Wait, what did you say that line he liked was?”

“For now he escaped from turmoil, only to be left to drift,” Rodimus recited.  “It’s definitely one of the best lines in the book.  A good one to derive a name from.”

“Yes, but why that one?” Optimus asked, tapping his chin.  “Something about that line feels familiar.”

“That’s what I was thinkin’, too,” Jazz agreed.  “That’s why I wanna reread the story.  I feel like maybe if I read it, I’ll get a feel for what makes this kid tick.”

“If he’s a former Decepticon, but still that young, he probably joined without knowing what was going on,” Rodimus reasoned.  “Did Dai Atlas say where Wing picked him up?”

“No, he didn’t mention it.  You got an idea?” the white and black cyberninja asked.

“Maybe.  See if you can ask him.”

“Actually, no,” Optimus cut in.  “If you ask Dai Atlas there’s a chance Drift will find out.  You said it was Wing who found him?  He’s a member of the Circle of Light in Crystal City, right?  I know someone I can call there, I’ll see if I can find out where he found Drift.  I think I know what Rodimus is thinking.”

The perfectionist made a delighted sound and his best friend had no time to react before Rodimus had thrown his arms around his neck again.  “You know what I’m thinking, and you know someone in Crystal City where I want to get bonded!  This really is fate!  The ceremony is still on!”

“Rodimus, please!  Could you not…?!” Optimus put his servos on Rodimus’s face as the latter tried to kiss him, pushing away.

“ _Rodimus Prime!_ ”

Jazz, Optimus, and Rodimus all froze, looking to the door.  Red Alert stood looking nowhere near as amused as Jazz was by the spectacle, hands on her hips.  She tapped her pede irritably, lip components pursed together tight.  She marched forward and, with strength no one would have expected from a femme her size, grasped him by the arm with her good hand and twisted.  After a few kliks of this he let out a yelp and let go of the other Prime.

“Ow, ow, ow!  Red Alert, that hurts!” the perfectionist complained, being forced back onto the berth.

“Good!  I told you a million times, don’t get up from this berth until I tell you it’s okay!  The fact that this is causing you pain is a sign that you’re still not completely well, so you need to rest as much as you can!” the medic huffed, letting go.

“I think it’s more a sign that you’re freakishly strong for a femme two-thirds my size…” Rodimus muttered, rubbing his abused arm.

At the look Red Alert gave him, Optimus and Jazz backed away quickly before they could be caught in the carnage.  “Well, it looks like you have this well-handled, so we’ll be going now,” the red and blue Prime announced, pushing Jazz ahead of him while he retreated.

“You can’t leave me here with her, Optimus!  She’s going to torment me as much as she can before you’re stuck with her!” Rodimus called after him.  There was a clanging sound of metal.  “OW!  Medic abuse!  Someone call a law-bot!  OW!  Stop doing that!”

As soon as the door was closed, Jazz and Optimus looked at each other then started laughing.  They walked down the hall.  “You know, I don’t think we should laugh.  I think she might be scarier than Ratchet.  You sure we’ll survive her?” Jazz asked.

“Don’t listen to what Rodimus is saying now,” Optimus waved him off.  “According to him she’s a great medic.  She may not have the best berth-side manner, but she found the cure for Gold Plastic Syndrome and is trusted by the Director of Science himself.  She’s going to make a great addition to the team.”

“I know, I’m sure we’ll be fine,” the cyberninja agreed.  “Alright, I’m gonna go home and hit the berth.  Thanks for helping me with Drift, by the way.”

“Not a problem.  We’re going to be a team from here on out.  Don’t be afraid to ask for any of our help.”

“I know.  Glad I decided to join you guys,” Jazz slapped the Prime on the shoulderplate.  “See ya later, mech.”

“Good lunar, Jazz.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz gets a visit from the Twins, who help him decode part of the clue Drift left in Once Upon a Hill of Scrap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to give the Jettwins more distinct personalities and may have gotten carried away.
> 
> ...I APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING! *prances off*
> 
> Also: WARNING: There's some violent imagery near the end of this chapter some may find disturbing. Viewer Discretion is Advised.

The next solar Jazz sat at his desk in Fortress Maximus.  Until he returned to Earth, he was still expected to keep up with all of his Elite Guard work there in their headquarters.  And with Sentinel Prime… no, Sentinel _Magnus_ now in charge and still angry that Jazz had abandoned him to be in Optimus’s team he had extra work to do.

While he went over the reports of incidents cropping up around the galaxy as the Decepticons rose in anger over their captured leader, the white and black mech kept glancing at the datapad next to him.  He’d found the passage Drift had told him about the last lunar, and had it sitting opened.

_Spinout glanced back at the life he left behind in his haste.  A life barely lived, though not for lack of trying.  Circumstances simply had never been kind to him, that lone mech whom had lived his life upon that hill of scrap.  However, was he making the right decision, leaving it all behind?  Would this truly be the better path to follow, the one so shrouded in mystery and uncertainty?_

_For now he escaped turmoil, only to be left to drift._

“Jazz, sir!”

The music-lover turned in his seat at the chorus.  He always welcomed the distraction the twins provided whenever they felt the need to visit him.  It wasn’t often anymore since he left Sentinel’s command, but they snuck away whenever possible.

“Oof!” the air was forced out of his vents as the two flyers hit him, almost tackling him out of his chair.  “Tryin’ to offline me with affection?  Save your new battle techniques for the ‘Cons, kiddos.”

“We are wanting to see you muchly before you are returning to Earth, Jazz, sir,” Jetfire replied, having landed in Jazz’s lap.  One of differences many didn’t know about between the twins was that Jetfire was much more physically affectionate.  While he wasn’t this way with just anyone, those he felt closest to were often showered with hugs and cuddles from the orange and white mech.  The list so far included Jetstorm (of course), Jazz, Wheeljack, Red Alert, and… well, while he liked Perceptor enough for it, the scientist only tolerated it when he wasn’t working.  And considering this was Perceptor, those moments were rare and few.

“You two _do_ know I’m not leaving for another couple’a deca-cycles, right?” Jazz grinned, hugging the younger mech back.  He didn’t mind their antics or shows of tenderness.  With their ranks as living weapons in the Elite Guard, it was nice to remind them and be reminded that they weren’t just tools.

“We are to be knowing,” Jetstorm nodded, standing behind the cyberninja and leaning on the back of his chair.  His arms were resting on Jazz’s shoulders, helm sitting on top of one.  Being as he was far more concerned about their image as ‘cool heroes’ than his brother, he didn’t attach to bots so quickly. Still, the blue and black flyer felt the same care for their ‘family,’ those who they finally felt they found a place with.  “But it is hard to be finding time to do the sneaking of away.  Sentinel Magnus, sir, is keeping optic on us.”

“We are thinking he is not of the liking us to be visiting you here,” Jetfire added.

“Well, I don’t care what he’s ‘of the liking’ of, so you two come chill whenever you want, dig?”

“We dig,” the twins chorused at him.

Jazz chuckled, putting a hand each on their helms and rubbing.  Jetstorm grinned at the sign of affection.  Jetfire made a happy sound, snuggling against his former teammate and ex-venting contentedly.

“What is you reading, Jazz, sir?” Jetstorm asked, pointing at the datapad.

“Once Upon a Hill of Scrap.  It’s an old classic,” the cyberninja answered, picking it up and handing it to the blue and black flyer.  “You cats ever read it?”

Jetstorm shook his helm.  “We are not to be doing the reading much in energon refinery.”

“We are not to be doing the anything much in energon refinery,” Jetfire muttered.  Their days in that cold, unfeeling factory was one of his least favorite subjects.

“What is it being about?”

“It’s about a mech named Spinout.  Cause life just seems to gang up on him at all times, he lives in a pile of scrap metal that was thrown out carelessly.  But then one day everything bad that happens to him just kind of… comes to a huge clusterfrag, and he runs away, leavin’ the only home he ever knew behind.  The rest of it is about him tryin’ to find his place in the universe,” Jazz summarized.  It was a hard story to do so without spoiling everything that happened afterwards.

“It is sounding a bit like us,” Jetfire admitted solemnly.  “Before we are becoming the weapons, I am meaning.”

“You should read it sometime.  I’d loan you that one, but I’m borrowin’ it from a friend,” the cyberninja replied.

“You are being here, yes?” Jetstorm asked, holding the pad so that they could all see it.  It was open to the passage Jazz was looking over again.

“For now he escaped turmoil, only to be left to drift,” Jetfire read aloud.  “Who is Turmoil?”

Jazz chuckled.  “Turmoil isn’t a someone, it just meant that he got away from a really bad…” he trailed off as a light seemed to switch on inside his processor.  “Wait… maybe… maybe he _is_ a someone!”

The twins watched in fascination, the orange and white one shifting to allow Jazz to move, as the cyberninja pushed a button on his desk.  His personal computer inside of it popped up and he started browsing through the Elite Guard’s files detailing known Decepticons at large.

“That’s it!  I knew that sounded familiar,” Jazz said triumphantly, pulling up a file.  A giant black-plated mech stared at them from the computer screen.  The name TURMOIL labelled him in large letters.  Underneath that were all of the notes and details they knew of him.

“That is being the Turmoil?” Jetfire asked.

“If I was normal, non-weapon bot, I would be running from that as well,” Jetstorm joked.

Jazz didn’t blame him.  According to the notes Turmoil was one of Megatron’s top officers in charge of clearing planets for cyberforming.  This meant wiping entire organic species out of the universe.  The idea made Jazz’s oil burn.  The idea of Cybertronian supremacy wasn’t exclusively held by Decepticons, he was loath to admit.  But only the ruthless rebel faction was cruel enough to actually carry through with such things.

If this was what Drift was running from, Jazz was now even more curious what happened to him.  And now concerned about the cyber-dojo and Alkaline if the huge Decepticon, labelled ‘Armed, Highly Dangerous, Do Not Apprehend Without Heavy Backup,’ tracked his traitorous former-ally down.

“Jazz, sir?” Jetfire asked in concern.  “Are you being the okay?”

Jazz shook his helm to dispel the morbid thoughts, looking down at the flyer.  He smiled reassuringly.  “Yeah, I’m cool.  Just thinkin’.”

“Are you being worried about the Turmoil?” Jetstorm asked.  “There is no need to being afraid of him.”

“Yes, if he comes around we are to be, as you are saying, ‘giving him solid aft-kicking’,” the orange and white twin assured him confidently, punching a fist into his other hand.

Jazz laughed.  “I’m not afraid of anything with you two cool cats,” he said, giving the twin in his lap a shove off of himself.  “You two need’a get back to Sentinel, though.  He’s gonna blow a circuit if he finds you chillin’ here.”

“Yes, sir,” they agreed reluctantly.  They gave him one last hug before running off, waving.  Jazz waved them off, turning back to his computer to continue reading Turmoil’s file.

According to their sources that had infiltrated the Decepticon ranks, Turmoil was a sadistic and cruel mech, even to his own troops.  If any of them displeased him he had no qualms dispatching them personally.  It didn’t seem to take much to make him angry, either.

 _“I had the displeasure of witnessing him… expressing his displeasure,”_ one of their sources recounted.  _“I was at the Dented Oil Can, this bar the Decepticon soldiers frequent to relax.  Turmoil and his crew were there having a drink before heading off on a mission to [CONFIDENTIAL].  One of his mechs, a crude and foulmouthed one everyone just called Grease, made a threat against Turmoil’s latest requisition to his team.  Apparently the officer, who couldn’t have been too far out of his youngling-hood, said something he didn’t like, but I hadn’t been paying attention until the shouting started.  When Turmoil intervened to see what was going on, he came in right around the point where Grease was threatening to ‘gouge out [his] optic sensor and frag the socket while [he] was still online, just to hear the sounds [he]’d make.’_

_“Apparently, that was exactly the wrong sequence of words, because Turmoil grabbed Grease by the throat and slammed him against the wall.  He asked Grease if he liked the idea of being fragged in the optic-socket.  Grease didn’t have time to answer, because Turmoil pulled out this huge laser-bladed dagger and stabbed him clean through the optic with it.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sound like that in my lifecycle, the screams Grease was giving as Turmoil let go of the dagger, and – I’m not making this up – that dagger had gone clean through his optic and out the other side, pinning him to the wall by his optic-socket.  I didn’t even know that was possible, let alone how he could still be online during that.  Maybe it actually managed to miss the most vital parts of his processor, I dunno.  But Turmoil stepped back and pulled out his blaster right as Grease was reaching up to pull it out.  He just stood there as this mech was screaming and begging and even apologizing, pinned to the wall through his helm, and pulled out his blaster.  He shot off both Grease’s arms before he could even touch the dagger._

_“So now Grease is standing there, laser-dagger through his optic-socket, both his arms blasted off at the joints, and Turmoil is just smirking while he’s trying to push himself off the wall, and just succeeding jamming that laser-dagger further into his socket.  And, Primus it’s no wonder he liked that kid he picked up.  The kid was_ laughing _.  Turmoil and his crew, the whole lot of them acting like what just happened was completely normal, walked right out of the bar while leaving Grease on the wall.  No one in the bar looked at them while they left, and no one touched Grease until they were long gone.  By that point he’d gone into stasis lock.  We pulled the laser-dagger out and lowered him to the ground.  While we waited for a medic it became increasingly more obvious that the majority of the ‘bots in the bar were uncomfortable with what had just happened.  Decepticons may be cheating, dirty-fighting spawns-of-glitches, but no one deserves that kind of torturous punishment.  No one was going to standup against Turmoil, though.  We’re not suicidal.”_

Jazz leaned back, running a hand over his faceplate, fore-servo reflexively running under his left optic.  He could almost feel that laser-dagger stabbing through him while he read the story.  This was the kind of mech Drift had been running from?

Slag it all, they were in big trouble if that was the case.  He didn’t want to know what kind of punishment awaited a complete traitor to their cause if threatening an officer under Turmoil alone gave a ‘bot a dagger through the optic and missing arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some calls are made.

Optimus sat at the comm-station in his quarters as it chimed loudly to indicate an incoming call.  Answering it, a regal-looking mech sat on the other end.  The caller’s optics were cast down upon a datapad, blue legs contrasting his otherwise red and white paintjob crossed.  His red helm bore a pair of spiked antennae, white faceplate double-plated.

“Star Saber, thank you for calling back on such short notice,” Optimus greeted him.

The mech turned his attention to the Prime, unfolding his legs and turning in his seat.  “Of course, Optimus Prime,” he replied, putting the datapad to the side and folding his hands together on his console.  “I was quite surprised someone from the Academy wanted to speak to me.  I haven’t heard from any of my students since I retired.”

Back when Optimus, Sentinel, Rodimus, and Elita had gone to the Autobot Academy, Star Saber was one of their combat instructors.  He was an on-and-off teacher of hand-to-hand combat, though it was only when he was available.  His other duties within the Autobot Army, the Circle of Light, and the Cyberninja Corps often kept him running between the four.  He never seemed to mind, though.  He would often joke that, “Primus gave us all a gift.  For some it is kindness.  For some it is combat.  For me, it is apparently juggling.”  He retired from both teaching and the Autobot Army a few decades after Sentinel graduated and Optimus was expelled, however, and returned to Crystal City to concentrate on leading the Circle of Light.

“To be fair, I think most of your former students are still a bit afraid of you,” the blue and red Prime answered, chuckling.  “You did tend to be a bit… er… hard on us.”

“Military training doesn’t require a gentle servo.”

“No, but I don’t think most of us expected to be laid out every time you wanted to test our abilities.  I think we spent more time on our backs than our pedes in your class.”

Star Saber let out a laugh, shaking his helm.  “Well, as much as I would like to reminisce about those days, I don’t think that is why you left me a message to call.  What is it you needed?”  He leaned forward, lacing his servos together.

“I’m actually hoping for some help on behalf of a teammate of mine,” Optimus explained, getting down to business.  “He’s been asked to help a new student of Dai Atlas’s.  A young mech named Drift.”

Star Saber straightened at the name.  “Drift,” he repeated.  “Perhaps I should transfer you to Wing…”  His arm left the screen, reaching for a button to the side.

“Actually, I do want to talk to him, but not like this,” Optimus stopped him by raising a hand.  “That was why I asked to speak to you and not him.  I know the Circle of Light like to keep to themselves, so I thought if I asked you I could get an audience with him.  This is something I’d like to talk with him about in person.  Perhaps bring my teammate, Jazz, as well.”

The red and white mech seemed hesitant, looking away from the screen.  “Hmm.  The Temple of Light is a sacred place, Optimus Prime.  We do not usually let others beyond the worship chamber.  However, this isn’t something I want you to speak with him in public about.  Drift’s situation is… unusual.  If Dai Atlas discussed this with Jazz, he did it with the trust that he would keep it in confidence.  However, I don’t know if I can trust that, if he in turn told others.”

“Please, he only told me about it because he needs help.  The only people who know about this are him, Rodimus, and I,” Optimus reasoned.

The leader of the Circle looked at him, interested.  He then looked thoughtful.  “Very well, Optimus Prime.  Allow me to make some arrangements, organize your visit.  Be sure to keep this all between the three of you.  I will call you again.”

“Thank you, Star Saber.  I promise, we won’t tell another spark about Drift.”

Star Saber nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer, ending the call.

Optimus leaned back in his seat, sighing in relief.  For a moment he was unsure Star Saber would help.  He was a bit surprised the Circle of Light leader even remembered Optimus.  While he was in Star Saber’s class in the Academy, in fact it was where he learned the melee weapon skills to wield his axe, he hadn’t been a stand-out student.  Rodimus, at the time Hot Rod, had been far more proficient.  Everything seemed to come easy to Rodimus, though.  Even though he’d joined the Academy after Optimus and Sentinel, it hadn’t taken long for him to blaze through training.  In the academic parts of the Academy he trailed behind Elita-1 and Tracks, who was in the same class as Hot Rod at the time.  However, in practical application of his training, especially his combat skills, he excelled.  He was put ahead of them before long, even graduating before his elder classmates.  He was already seeing action on the battlefield while Sentinel, Optimus, and Elita were seeing it on their ill-conceived trip to Archa-7.

The Prime shook the line of thought from his helm, remembering that he needed to call Jazz.  He imputed the signal code for Jazz’s desk at the Elite Guard into the comm-station.

Before long, the white and black mech was staring at him from the screen this time.  “Hey, Jazz,” the Prime greeted.

“Yo, O.P.,” the cyberninja replied, leaning back in his seat.  “What’s shakin’?”

“I thought you’d like to know that I called Star Saber in Crystal City.”

“Whoa, you called the Big Mech in the Temple of Light himself?” Jazz sat up in his seat, mouth falling open.  “When you go to the top, you go straight up.”

“So I’ve been told,” Optimus shrugged, unable to help his sheepish smile.  He meant it as well, recalling Bumblebee saying something similar when he asked to be patched through to Ultra Magnus when they first found the AllSpark.

“So, what’d he say?” the cyberninja asked.

“He’s making some calls.  When he’s done we’ll have a meeting with Wing scheduled.”

“Solid.  I knew you’d pull through for me, O.P.”

“Yeah, well,” this time the Prime couldn’t hide his embarrassment at the praise.  “I’m just doing what I can.”

“I mean it, mech.  You’re awesome,” Jazz grinned.  “Call me whenever Star Saber gets back to you, alright?”

“You got it.”

 

()()()()()

 

“Drift!  Are you out here?” Dai Atlas walked out into the techno-organic garden behind the dojo, looking around.  There was no sign of his soon-to-be pupil out there, either.  He had already looked throughout the dojo itself with no luck.  “Where is that mech…?” he muttered to himself, ex-venting.  It was a moot question, as there was only one other place he could have, and would have, gone.  He was likely visiting Alkaline’s market.  It was picking up again now that the dojo was almost ready to open again.

When Yoketron had been offlined during the war and the dojo fell into disrepair, the little farming village of Alkaline gradually lost almost all of its commerce.  The dojo had been the biggest draw for visitors, being the largest building and the home of an ancient and rare art of battle.  The war had already stolen its students, mechs and femmes choosing to wield weapons instead of training to be them.  Yoketron had never blamed them.  The cyber martial arts took millennia to learn and master.  It took only a few stellar cycles for a ‘bot to learn how to shoot straight, along with a few essential combat skills.  It had brought him no small amount of joy to have Prowl there, one last student to pass his teachings onto before he offlined.

Now that the dojo was being opened to students again the market was being cleaned up and stocked for the steady flow of customers starting to trickle in.  ‘Bots coming to see the dojo, to perhaps learn.  Tourists who wanted to see young cyberninjas in training, something that hadn’t been seen for millennia now.  It would be a while before it was anything to behold again.  No ‘bot learned to become a living weapon overnight.

Drift, though he seemed to feel the same disdain for Autobots as he did Decepticons, had developed a habit of wandering down there to see the people.  He didn’t talk to them, interact with them, but observed them.  He almost looked like he was… searching for something.

He would return when he was ready, Dai Atlas decided.  The first few times Drift had disappeared into the market his sensei-to-be had hurried there as well, half-expecting him to board a transport to escape the fate he’d resigned himself to.  But all he ever found was the former Decepticon standing in the shadows of the shops, simply… watching.  What he was expecting to find, the older mech couldn’t be sure.

As Dai Atlas returned inside, a light chiming sound informed him that his private comm-station was receiving a call.  He quickly moved to his office in order to take it, checking signal code.  It was from Crystal City.  It couldn’t be…

It wasn’t.

Instead of Star Saber, the mech who greeted him had a completely white paintjob, outside of a few red accents.  His sharp, winged helm gave him his name, while his unique optics gave him his reputation.  Among Cybertron he was known as Wing, the Golden Savior.  The Circle of Light, however, rather preferred Wing, Reckless Martyr.

“Well, Dai Atlas,” the gleaming warrior ex-vented, looking a mix of amused and exasperated.  “I asked you to keep an optic on Drift.  And you responded by sicking a team of Elite Guard investigators on the Circle.  Star Saber is starting to question both of our judgement, I want you to know.”

“I have asked a very competent and trustworthy mech to help me put together the pieces of Drift’s puzzle,” the Cyberninja master responded.

“I trust you,” Wing held up a hand in peace.  “In turn, I also trust the mechs you’re relying on.  They’re apparently going to come to ask me some questions about Drift.  I’m not sure what they think they can learn from me that I have not already told you.”

“I think Jazz is simply being cautious.  Drift is extremely wary of people prying into his past.  I haven’t managed to get more than a few words about it out of him,” Dai Atlas ex-vented, rubbing his optics.  “I keep asking you to come here, Wing.  You are the one who found him, the one who convinced him to join the Autobots.  He feels a connection with you.”

“I know, and that is why it’s best he stays there, and I here,” Wing insisted.  “He must learn to trust others.  If he relies completely on me to be his one connection to the Autobot cause, he will never commit himself to it.”

“Why should I have to?”

Dai Atlas turned quickly in his seat, Wing looking behind him in shock.

Well, if there was nothing else Drift already had, it was stealth.  Neither had realized he was at the doorway until he spoke.

“Drift…” Wing began.

“I don’t want to be an Autobot anymore than I want to continue being a Decepticon.  Why can’t I be neutral?  I know there are plenty of them out there,” the younger mech cut him off, glaring at the floor.

“You know why, Drift,” Dai Atlas answered.  “We have been over it at least a dozen times.  If you leave yourself undecided when you already have shown Decepticon tendencies…”

“Decepticon tendencies,” Drift echoed bitterly.  “That’s all there is to it, isn’t it?  If you’re not with us you’re against us.  Autobot or Decepticon.  ‘Them’ or ‘us.’  There’s no difference between you guys.”

“Drift, that isn’t-!” the Cyberninja Master tried to argue.

“No.  It is.  It’s exactly how it is!  You’re just too stupid to-”

“Drift!” Wing said more forcefully.

The younger white-plated mech immediately closed his mouth, seeming to remember where he was and who he was speaking to.  He looked between the two, optics going wide.  “I… oh… Primus… I’m…” he couldn’t seem to properly articulate through the dread he was feeling over what he just said, and to whom.

“Drift, that’s enough,” Wing said gently this time.  “We know you didn’t mean it.”

The cyberninja-to-be looked at him before his optics fell to the floor again, though this time with shame burning in them instead of anger.  “But I did…” he muttered, backing out of the room.  “I meant every word…”  Before either could stop him he turned and fled.

Dai Atlas stood to pursue him, but was stopped by Wing.  “No, let him go for now,” the Circle of Light member said.  “He needs to cool himself down.”

The former Elite Guard member nodded in agreement, sitting back down.  “I’m sorry for that,” he said.  “His temper has been getting better, but he still occasionally acts like that.  As if every ‘bot on Cybertron wishes to fight him.”

“I think he’s doing it because he thinks they _should_ ,” Wing guessed.  “He looks to pick a fight because he is trying to prove himself right.  That Autobots are no better than Decepticons.  That we will respond to his insubordination with violence.”

“Do not think I haven’t been tempted,” Dai Atlas joked.  “In all seriousness, however, I am worried that when I start to teach Autobot students he will not be able to hold back.  If he becomes a disruption, a detriment, then I don’t think I can keep him here.”

“He will not,” Wing insisted.  “I have faith in him.  He’s not as bad as he tries to make himself seem.  We simply need to earn his trust, as much as he needs to earn ours.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz and Optimus visit Crystal City and hear Wing's side of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this chapter world-building about the nature of their worship of Primus (since I made the Circle of Light their church), and... well, I can't really tell of the other bit of world building without spoiling the last half of the chapter. So I'll just say that you'll be learning a bit about Jazz's past along the way. Enjoy!

Crystal City was one of the central hubs of Cybertron.  Home to both the Temple of Light, their sacred grounds, and the illustrious Institute of Science, it was bastion of both worship and learning.  The name was earned by its unique, beautiful structures that glistened in the light of the sun.  It even held the light within them and lit up the lunar cycles with colors unseen across the rest of the mechanical planet’s surface.

“Crazy,” Jazz whistled as they stepped out of the transport station into the glowing city.

“Never been before?” Optimus guessed, chuckling slightly at Jazz’s astounded features.

“Nah, mech,” the ninja answered.  He craned his neck to watch a crystalline statue of some long-fallen hero of the Great War.  The abstract nature of the structure wasn’t easy to recognize.  “Read a lot about this place back when I was a youngling.  Even brushed up a bit before we came here.  But there’s a far, _far_ cry between lookin’ at an image on a ‘pad and seein’ it in person.”

“Yeah, the first time I came here I was pretty amazed, too,” the Prime nodded.  “If this was a social visit I’d show you around.  But we need to get to the Temple of Light.  Star Saber probably still has a thing for punctuality.  When he taught at the academy, he’d make you spar him with one servo behind his back.  That way he didn’t just beat you, he’d humiliate you at the same time.”

“The more you talk about him, the gladder I am that he didn’t teach there until after the Great War,” Jazz laughed, shaking his helm.

“You have no idea,” Optimus chuckled as they approached the main highway leading to the Temple of Light in the middle of the city.  It was the largest structure, much like the dojo in Alkaline.  A giant crystalline building towering over the people.  It didn’t feel ominous, however, but rather comforting.  A symbol representing the ever watchful and protective presence of Primus.  Despite a number of the members of the Circle of Light having aligned with the Autobot cause, there were far more neutrals, and even two were admitted Decepticon sympathizers.  No one was turned away from His Light, no matter their function or alliance.

The drive towards the Temple of Light was spent in silence outside of the whirring of their engines and wheels upon the road.  Many others were out during that time of the solar, most coming and going from the Institute of Science nearby.  It was a large building in itself, though not made of the crystal-like material most of the rest of the city was.  It instead held five grey and dark-blue campus buildings, which were arranged and highly reminiscent of the Ministry of Science in Iacon.  It made sense, as the Ministry was built by the Autobots to resemble the Institute.  It made it easier for the scientists who transferred from one to the other by eliminating the complications of memorizing an entirely new layout.  Science, after all, was the most important and highly regarded art on Cybertron, as the evolution of their entire species was highly dependent on its development.

After twenty cycles of driving past shops and refueling stations, as well as two bars Jazz would love to try out when they weren’t on business, they finally broke out of the steady flow of alt-modes and pulled up in front of the Temple of Light.  They transformed once they were safely out of the way, walking towards the large doors of the beautiful edifice.  They approached a femme handing out datapads, smiling warmly at their approach.

“Welcome to the Temple of Light, travelers,” the femme greeted.  Her vocals were light and pleasant.  She, like most members of the Circle, had a primarily white paintjob.  It was accented in light blue.  She was a minibot model, half their size, but her presence seemed larger than an Omega unit simply by the calm and soothing EM field she radiated.  “We welcome everyone, from all walks of life.  Please, feel free to worship however you like.  However, if you are not yet sure how to connect with Primus, I offer a pad of simple practices for anything which you may be seeking from your visit.”

“Thank you, but we’re actually here on business,” Optimus replied, holding out a hand in apology.  “I’m Optimus Prime and this is my teammate Jazz.  We have an appointment with Wing and Star Saber.”

“Ah, yes!” the femme said, opening a compartment in her abdomen and depositing the datapads she held inside.  She snapped it closed and turned inside.  “Please, follow me.  They are waiting for you in Star Saber’s office.”

The inside of the Temple of Light was just as breathtaking as the outside.  Crystal windows depicting the stories of Primus and the creation of Cybertronian life adorned the high walls.  Bots were standing and sitting about, reading inspirational and hope-giving datapads and looking at the beautiful art ornamenting the halls.  They followed her into the worship chamber, where many mechs and femmes sat.  Their pede-steps were the only sound, making Jazz feel uncomfortably as if he was disturbing the sacred warmth that filled the room as if Primus Himself embraced His children.

He glanced at a femme sitting near the aisle as he passed her.  Her optics were shuttered, a look of peace upon her faceplate.  A cord trailed from the base at the back of her processor into a console before her, hands folded in her lap as she seemed to recharge.  She was communing with Primus, he knew.  The Creator of Cybertron lay sleeping, dormant, under their very pedes no matter where on the planet they were.  After all, Primus and the planet of Cybertron were one in the same.  The Temple of Light was the most sacred place of worship because it was the only place that had a direct connection to His central processing unit.  By connecting directly into the computers there, the people of Cybertron could literally feel His presence inside of their sparks and processors, know that even though it had been millions of stellars since He had last stirred that He was still with them.  It was comforting for many who felt lost and alone, to know that the very ground they walked upon was alive with a being who loved all of His creations even while he slept.

They exited the chamber into a hall behind it, one that gave a warning to both Jazz and Optimus in their HUDs that they were entering a restricted area.  However, the temporary recognition bypass they were given quickly kicked in and they continued on after the message changed to a confirmation.

“Star Saber’s office is not far from here, gentlemechs,” the young femme assured them as they continued down the pristine white-walled hallway.  “I have already informed them that you’ve arrived.”

“Thank you, er…” Optimus trailed off as he came to the realization that he had never asked her designation.

“Upkeep,” she answered, nodding slightly.  “I am a member of the Circle’s scribes.  It’s my job to keep records on all methods of worship and communion so that we may further help our fellow Children of Primus along their paths.”

“Did you write those datapads you were handin’ out, then?” Jazz asked.

“Yes, I did.  I have been keeping track of the ways that people spend their time here in the Temple that gives their EM fields the most feelings of peace.”

“Solid.  I didn’t know the Circle did something like that,” the music lover looked thoughtful, then held out a hand.  “Ya know, on second thought, I’ll take one of those pads.  Been a while since I last had a little spark-to-spark with the Big Bot under us.”

“Of course,” Upkeep smiled, pulling out a pad from her compartment and handing it to him.  “Primus may slumber, but he still listens.”

They stopped at the end of the hallway in front of a large door.  Upkeep knocked on it and then waited.  After a moment she turned to the two soldiers.  “Star Saber has requested you enter.  I must return to the front of the temple.  May Primus be with you.”  She clasped her hands together and gave a bow, leaving them.

The office Jazz and Optimus entered into was nowhere near as elegant as the rest of the temple.  Especially as it belonged to the Leader of the Circle of Light, they expected something that was much more enrapturing.  It looked no different than the offices found in Fortress Maximus, with its grey walls and shelves holding datapads and holoprojectors of the previous Leaders.  On the opposing side of the room from the door was Star Saber, typing away at the computer spanning the wall behind his desk.  In front of the desk was Wing, who they recognized from the Circle of Light files they’d perused before making their trip.  He was reading intently from an old-model datapad.

“Optimus Prime and Jazz,” the Circle Leader greeted without turning around.  “Welcome to the Temple of Light.”

“Thank you for letting us meet with you two,” Optimus answered, approaching with Jazz at his side.

Unlike the red and white mech behind the desk, Wing powered his ‘pad down and stood to greet them.  “Greetings,” he said, offering his hand.  “I’m Wing, as you may have guessed.”

“Yes, we read about you before coming.  Wanted to be prepared,” the Prime returned, taking the hand and shaking it.  “I’m Optimus Prime, and this is Jazz.  He’s the one who wanted to talk to you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jazz nodded, taking the hand as well.

“Yes, about Drift,” the Circle member confirmed, gesturing to the seats in front of the desk.  There were two others next to the one he’d been sitting in.

When they were settled, Jazz reset his vocals.  “I’m gonna be honest, I went over how I was gonna ask about him a million times in my processor before gettin’ here.  But now that we’re actually chillin…”

“You don’t know where to start,” Wing finished for him.  He nodded in understanding.  “Simply ask what you wished to.  I am not going to hide anything.”

“Alright, then,” Jazz vented looking at Optimus.  The Prime nodded at him encouragingly.  Behind his desk, Star Saber still didn’t face them.  Whether or not he was even listening, it was hard to tell.  “Can you tell us about finding Drift?  Where you were, how long ago it was, that kinda thing.”

The mech with golden optics leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful.  “Well, I suppose if there is nowhere else you are planning to be for a while, I should tell you the whole story.  Just to warn you, it is a bit of a long one.”

“We cleared our schedules completely for this,” Optimus assured him.

“Yeah, I got nothin’ better to do for a few megacycles,” Jazz agreed.

“The story is not that long, I assure you,” Wing chuckled.  “But it starts with a visit I was making to the planet of Macron.”

“Macron?” Optimus echoed in surprise.  “That planet is just outside of Decepticon territory!”

“Yes, it is,” Star Saber cut in, proving he was indeed listening.  “However, the Decepticons also don’t generally attack Circle of Light ships.  They do retain at least _some_ respect for Primus and those who live to spread His Light, after all.”

“And yet you lecture me every time I go even near it,” Wing pointed out.

“Because I said ‘some’ respect, Wing.  They have taken to threatening anyone who so much as looks at their territory lately, even peaceful vessels.”

“As long as I don’t wear an Autobot badge and make sure to hail them, they leave me alone,” the white and gold mech waved a hand in dismissal.  “I am careful when around their territory.”

The Circle Leader grunted in response, obviously unwilling to pursue this conversation in front of guests.  It sounded like one they’d had many times before.

“Anyway,” Wing continued, turning his attention back to their visitors.  “I did not even make it that far.  I was just passing Z’Gun when I picked up an emergency beacon from an escape ship.”

 

()()SIX ORBITAL CYCLES AGO()()

 

Wing immediately altered his course as soon as he received the emergency beacon.  It was coming from not far outside of Zel Samine.  He cursed under his vents and made sure he his engines were working to their full capacity.  The organic people of Zel Samine were extremely protective of their planet and untrusting of Cybertronians.  He didn’t blame them, as they were the only planet to produce Zel Quartz, an extremely powerful and useful element for drawing energy, and thus attracted both sides during the Great War to keep their armies sustained.  After a battle between the two sides tore across a small part of the planet, destroying homes and lives in their wake, the people revolted and took up arms against both.  Ever since, they kept to themselves and threatened to fire on any Cybertronian who so much as requested to land on their planet.

As he approached the source of the signal, Wing became quickly aware of why the people of Zel Samine hadn’t come to help the distressed Cybertronian.  A Decepticon symbol was emblazoned upon the side of the tiny escape pod floating helplessly outside of Zel Samine’s gravitational pull.

Wing didn’t hesitate as he sent a hailing signal to the pod.  No response was returned, and he became nervous that its pilot may be seriously injured… or worst.  He shook the thought from his processor and moved his ship in carefully.  As long as he stayed outside of the planet’s outer atmosphere and made no sudden movements towards it, the people there would watch warily but leave him to his rescue mission.  When he was close enough the mech with golden optics opened his airlock and pushed himself from the stabilized ship, landing carefully against the escape pod.  One wrong move and he could accidentally knock them into the gravitational pull of Zel Samine, and then he’d have to deal with the paranoid organics possibly accusing him of invading.  The last thing Cybertron needed was an intergalactic incident.

After some work at the door to the pod, Wing managed to get it to open.  He entered the tiny craft, bracing himself in case the occupant was still conscious and hostile.  What he found shocked him, though.  There was a young mech in the pilot’s seat, in a state of stasis lock.  He looked only a few millennia out of his youngling-hood, his chassis mostly black with some white, including his helm, and some yellow and red details.  A Decepticon sigil glared at Wing from his chestplate, causing the Circle of Light member to feel some pity.  The Decepticon army was no place for someone so young.

Not dwelling on this, he gently picked the young mech up out of the seat, turning and leaping out of the escape pod and back towards his ship.  He cringed as he heard a straining metal noise behind him.  Latching onto a handle outside of the hatch into his ship, he turned to see the escape pod lurch into the gravitational pull of the planet under them, slowly drifting into it before picking up speed as it descended.  He’d have to send a message to the people of Zel Samine explaining why a Decepticon escape pod was suddenly burning up in their atmosphere, as well as an apology in case it landed anywhere… inconvenient for the organic race.

Wing secured the younger mech into the berth in the back he used for long journeys before taking to the cockpit and sending his message.  He decided to get away from the planet as fast as possible before they could send a retaliation for the accident.  Once he felt they were a safe distance away, he set the autopilot to take his ship back to Cybertron, specifically Crystal City.  As much as the Cybertronian Council would probably appreciate his immediate depositing of a Decepticon captive into their arms, that wasn’t what he felt he had.  This was a young mech who needed help and shelter for now.  Once he determined his intentions he’d decide whether or not to hand him over.

The Circle of Light member made his way back to the berth in the back.  The young mech was still in stasis lock, and would likely stay that way until he gave him something to refuel with.  He was definitely suffering from a fuel shortage, and he had a few battle wounds.  Nothing substantially large, and easily repaired.  Most of his damage was from floating around in space in a damaged and understocked escape pod for… who knew how long he was in that thing.

Still, Wing hooked the young Decepticon up to an emergency refueling pump and waited.  He had to send some messages, check up on his systems, and make sure he didn’t start an intergalactic incident with the Zel Saminians.  Luckily, they only took it as another reason they should never allow Cybertronians within fifty lightyears of their planet.  Star Saber had agreed to allow the young Decepticon stay in the Temple of Light, as long as he had no ill intentions.  Wing agreed to talk to him and find out what he could.  He didn’t have high hopes, as Decepticons were notoriously secretive about their pasts.  The few that were public knowledge made those curious realize why.

When Wing went back to check on the young mech he was surprised to find him sitting at one of the windows, the refueling station packed away.  He was staring out into space, at what it was hard to tell.  There wasn’t much to see where they were except stars burning in the far distance.

“Hello,” Wing greeted, deciding not to startle the other mech.

Said black and white bot turned his helm to face the Circle of Light member, optics sweeping over him searchingly.  Finally he returned them to glaring at Wing’s faceplate.  “I don’t see a sigil.  You Autobot or Decepticon?” he asked.

“Neither,” Wing answered, walking over carefully.  He watched the Decepticon warily, trying not to come off as threatening.

“No such thing anymore,” the young mech snorted, looking back out into space.

“Really?” Wing sat next to him.  “And why is that?”

Instead of answering, the young mech glared at him again.  “Where’re you taking me?”

“Cybertron, to Crystal City.”

“I knew it,” he scoffed.  “Autobot.  You just don’t wear the badge.”

“I am not an Autobot,” Wing reiterated.  “Would you like me to take you to Decepticon territory instead?  I can adjust the autopilot to take us to New Kaon instead.”  The offer was sincere.  He had been taking him back to Crystal City to grant him temporary amnesty within the Temple of Light, but he knew he’d have to turn him into the Autobots eventually.  If he took them to New Kaon, though, he didn’t know his way around.  He didn’t know where to take him that was safe.

“No!” the young mech startled him with his sudden outburst, seeing the air practically catch in his intakes at the idea.  “ _Not_ Decepticon territory.  Couldn’t you just… I don’t know… drop me off somewhere that isn’t either Autobot or Decepticon territory?”

Wing raised an optic ridge at the suggestion.  “You want to be set down on a neutral territory, somewhere you just insisted doesn’t exist.  And you’re at least partially right about that in this case.  Any planet not involved in the conflict won’t take kindly to a Decepticon being brought to them.  Not with how many planets they’ve wiped out.”

The young mech cringed and looked back out the window.  “This war is so stupid…” he muttered, rubbing his faceplate with a hand.

“You won’t get an argument from me about that,” Wing laughed.  “Can I trust you won’t try anything until we get to the planet, then?”

“…yeah, I guess.”  After a moment the younger mech added, “I’m going to get bored without something to do, though.”

“I suppose you will,” Wing said, standing up.  “Give me a moment… what is your designation?”

The young mech stared at him a moment before shaking his helm and watching the stars again.  It was quite obvious he wasn’t planning on answering the question.

Wing took a quick visit to the cockpit before returning with an old, beat-up datapad.  “Here,” he said, holding it out to the young mech.  “I don’t know if you’ve ever read this, but it’s all I have.  _Once Upon a Hill of Scrap_.  It’s one of my favorite stories.”

“I haven’t,” the young mech nodded in thanks.  “How long until we reach Cybertron?”

“A couple of solar cycles.  You should be able to get through a few chapters by then.”

 

()()()

 

The rest of the trip was relatively quiet, with the young mech in the back mostly just reading his newly acquired datapad while skillfully dodging the questions Wing bombarded him with.  He wouldn’t tell him where he was from, his designation, who he was working with, what the last planet he’d been on, or why he was in a Decepticon escape pod and unwilling to return to them.  The one thing he’d been able to find out was that the young black and white mech had an aversion to accepting fuel he didn’t watch be opened from a new container, and he didn’t like when Wing would get too close.

It didn’t take long for them to reach Crystal City, docking at the spaceport right outside of the Temple.  However, Star Saber wasn’t the only one there to greet him.

There was a pair of Autobot Elite Guard flanking him.

The young mech with him didn’t take this well.  “You said I was staying at the Temple!  You said you weren’t going to turn me in right away!  You liar!” he all but shrieked, backing away into the ship as soon as he saw them.

“I didn’t know!  This isn’t…” Wing gave up trying to call after the young mech, who was likely back in the living quarters of the ship by now.  He turned on Star Saber.  “You told the Guard?” he accused.

“I made a call based on the information given to me,” Star Saber defended himself.  “We don’t know who that youngling is, nor his intentions.  This could be a Decepticon plan to get inside of the Temple for all we know.”

“I don’t believe that,” Wing snapped, restraining himself from saying anything that would lead to disaster.  “He is troubled, and scared of something.  And I promised him he would have amnesty within the Temple until I’ve determined he’s well enough that a cell wouldn’t be the worst possible thing.”

“It’s not your call, Wing,” Star Saber warned.

“But it is.  According to our laws, any member of the Circle of Light has the right to grant amnesty to anyone they deem worthy, in the name of Primus who is the highest authority.  And I am granting that ‘youngling’ amnesty.”

Star Saber stared him down for a few nanokliks before exventing loudly.  “Alright, then.  He’s your responsibility.  Remember, if he is here more than four solar cycles I will be granted the ability to veto his amnesty, and I _will_ hand him over to the Elite Guard.  So either he goes before then, or he will be forced to.”

Wing opened his mouth to argue, but then thought better of it.  The truth was that if Star Saber truly wanted to he could call for the entire Circle to put in a vote omitting Wing’s amnesty.  The fact that he wasn’t, even with the Elite Guard soldiers standing there to witness them taking a Decepticon into the Circle, proved that he trusted Wing, if not his judgement.  Instead, he went back into the ship to retrieve the retreated young mech.

As he thought, he found the Decepticon sitting at the window in the living quarters, venting heavily and clutching the datapad he’d been reading to his chestplate in a bid to keep himself calm.  That was a good sign, it meant he didn’t want to do anything rash.

Wing walked towards him cautiously, knowing seeing the Guardsmechs hurt whatever little trust they’d built over the last few solars.  When the other mech didn’t make any indication he was going to flee any further, the Circle member sat next to him.  He still kept the distance the young Decepticon felt more comfortable with, though.  After a moment in which there was only silence, he finally said, “I didn’t know.  I told Star Saber you were coming because he is the head of the Circle of Light and I needed him to know what was going on.  He told me he wouldn’t call the Elite Guard, but apparently something happened between then and now to make him change his mind.”  He hoped the explanation would help him relax.  “He’s only looking out for the best interest of the Circle.  It’s his job.”

“I don’t want to be looked at by Elite Guard medics,” the young mech hissed at him.  “I don’t trust them.”

“You won’t have to,” Wing assured him.  “I granted you temporary amnesty at the Circle.  For the next four solars you’ll be in my care here, and you’ll be looked after by _our_ medics.  They don’t have any loyalties to anyone but their patients and Primus.”

The young mech finally relaxed, hydraulics seeming to hiss as he released all of the tension he was holding in.  “Thank you,” he said, making Wing smile.  That was the first time he’d said those words, even since he was rescued from the ship.

“Of course,” the white and gold mech stood up, offering a hand.

The young mech looked unsure at it, hesitating.

“You need to trust me or I won’t be able to help you.  And I’ll need to know your designation,” Wing said gently.  At the re-tensing of his shoulderplates, he ex-vented despite his patience.  “Being granted amnesty makes you a temporary member of the Circle of Light.  I need to make a file for you, and I can’t without a designation.”

The young mech looked away from him, thinking.  After a few nanokliks that felt like megacycles, he finally answered.  “D… Drift.  My designation is Drift.”

“Well then, Drift,” Wing let the name roll of his glossa as the Decepticon – as Drift – took his hand and stood up.  “Welcome to the Circle of Light.”

 

()()END FLASHBACK()()

 

“Wait, you have a file on him?” Optimus asked as Wing fell silent.

“Yes, but there isn’t much in it,” Wing conceded.  “Simply the picture of what he used to look like, one of what he looks like now, and any medical information.”  He turned in his seat and reached towards Star Saber who handed him a datapad.  He in turn handed it to Jazz.  “As I said before, there’s nothing in there we haven’t told Dai Atlas, and thus he told you.  Drift wouldn’t tell us anything while he was here, which could have spared him the few decacycles he spent in holding.”

Jazz used the stylus attached to the datapad to scroll through.  He let out a low whistle at how incomplete the entire thing was.  “I’ve known Intelligence Agents less secretive than this,” he muttered.  When he reached the medical information and read through, his optic ridges shot up.  “Whoa, hold up, am I reading this right?  He had a Cybertronian protoform, not a New Kaonian one?  That means… he wasn’t sparked in Decepticon territory.  He was sparked here in Autobot territory.  But his C.N.A. didn’t match _anyone_ one in the Elite Guard Central Database?”

The EGCD held the record of every Cybertronian sparked in Autobot territory.  This included their unique C.N.A. signatures, which was typically used to make fleshing out spies easier.  It obviously wasn’t a perfect system, being as Shockwave infiltrated the Elite Guard so easily.  However, if he was sparked in New Kaon using one of the stolen Cybertronian protoforms his C.N.A. would have pinged an alert.  The Elite Guard had put an alert into the EGDB to inform them if the base C.N.A. from a protoform matched that of the batch stolen from the Alkaline Dojo.

“It baffled us, too.  But he was definitely born Cybertronian,” Star Saber spoke up.  "There are too many distinct differences between a Cybertronian protoform and a New Kaonian protoform for the medics to mix them up.  So somehow we have a Decepticon with a Cybertronian protoform but no record of them ever existing.”

“How does that even happen?” Optimus asked, looking between them.

Jazz worried his bottom lip component with his dentae, wondering if he should answer that question.  Optimus really was raised in a nice family with good ideals if he didn’t know already.  “I think I know,” he simply answered.  “At least, I have a good hunch.  Wing dropped some good info that backs it up, too.”

“I’m glad I could be of some help then,” Wing stood up along with them.  “Allow me to walk you out.”

“Thank you, Wing,” Optimus nodded.  He turned to Star Saber, who was watching them from behind his desk.  “And thank you for allowing us this opportunity, Star Saber.  I hope I can come back under less time-sensitive circumstances.  Maybe if I have time I can before I return to Earth.”

“I would like that, Optimus Prime,” Star Saber’s optics showed his smile, looking far friendlier now that the conversation wasn’t on their enigmatic former Decepticon.  “And perhaps we can even spar sometime.  I wouldn’t mind seeing how far you’ve come.”

Optimus laughed, rubbing the back of his blue helm.  “That’s flattering, but I still remember what it was like to be laid out by you twice a decacycle.  I’m not afraid to admit it makes me nervous thinking of repeating that ordeal.”

The Circle Leader laughed, standing and giving them a light bow.  “Thank you for visiting all the same, Optimus Prime.  You too, Jazz.  I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to teach you like I did him while you were in the Academy.”

“From what I can gather, that may have been for the best,” Jazz grinned.  “Thanks again, sir.  Primus be with you.”

“Primus be with you both,” Star Saber nodded and sat back down as they left with Wing.

As he walked them out, Wing glanced at Jazz.  “You gathered the same thing I did from all of this, didn’t you?” he inquired.

“Probably.  Makes me wonder, though.  If you knew where to look, why didn’t you?”  Jazz tried not to sound accusatory, but he was truly curious.

Wing gave an uncomfortable look, replying, “You would be surprised the questions they won’t answer for those in the Circle of Light.  I don’t blame them completely.  It’s hard to trust the word of Primus when you feel abandoned by him.”

Optimus looked between them.  “Wait, what you guys talking about?”

Jazz again debated in his processor, but then decided he shouldn’t lie in a Temple of Primus.  It seemed wrong.  “I’m gonna go ask around in the slums,” he said.

The Prime gave a surprised sound.  “Why would you go there?  It’s just upgrade junkies and the functionless.”

“…I was sparked in the slums.”

Optimus’s jaw fell open, staring at the music lover.  Jazz didn’t look back at him, looking straight ahead as they made their way out.  “I… Jazz, I…” Optimus stuttered, surprise melting into shame.

“Nah, mech.  You’re not wrong.  You are, but you’re not.”

Wing nodded.  “It’s definitely gained the reputation from somewhere.  But most of the bots there are good mechs and femmes.”

The three fell silent for the rest of the walk to the giant doors leading back out into Crystal City.  “Thanks again, Wing,” Jazz shook the white and gold mech’s hand.  “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“I’d appreciate it.  And I was glad to help,” Wing answered, turning and shaking hands with Optimus this time.  “May Primus be with you both.”

“You too, Wing,” Optimus replied.  He waved to the holy mech and then Upkeep, who was talking to two other femmes while handing them her pamphlet-pads.  She waved back enthusiastically before continuing what she was saying to them.

The drive back to the transport was spent in awkward silence.  They swiped their badges at the transport station, which allowed them to move about on it without needing to pay the fee, and found a place where they were relatively alone.  There were only three others in the car of the transport they chose, and they were talking amongst themselves as well.

After a few cycles in which Jazz watched Crystal City disappear behind them, the solar cycle fading into the lunar and causing different colors to dance across its unique structures, Optimus tried talking to him again.  “Look, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know you’re from the slums.”

“I know,” Jazz replied.  He didn’t say it was okay, because it wasn’t.  There was a stigma about bots from the slum that hung in the air like a bad odor.  It made his spark ache when he heard others talking like they knew what it was like to grow up there.  “Bots like Rattletrap don’t give the slums a solid rep.  But Wing was right, most of the bots there were good.  We all looked out for each other, no one else was going to.”

“The Autobot Council has _tried_ to…”

“Don’t even go there, mech,” Jazz stopped the Prime with a cold twinge of his vocals.  “The Council says that, but they don’t do nothin’.  Just send law-bots to ‘clean up’ the place.  And by that I mean they harass the locals and rough up the dealers without actually doin’ anything about it.  Smart folks learned quick to stay outta sight when they came around.  Then the Council could all pat themselves on the backs for havin’ talked about all the good they did.  The news networks all just say whatever the Council tells them and shove the story into a two cycle segment because no one wants to hear about the junkies and bangers in the slums.  As long as they don’t have to look at them they couldn’t care less what’s goin’ on there.”

Optimus looked away from him again, not sure what to say to all that.  He only knew what he was taught when he was raised.  Instead of trying to say something else that would probably make Jazz angry, he asked, “So why did you get the idea to look for info on Drift there?”

“Cause he sounds like a slum youngling, just like me.  Specifically, I think he was a junkie.  He has an aversion to Autobots and the Elite Guard, probably because of the law-bots I told you about.  He’s not in the EGDB, meaning he had to be sparked somewhere he wouldn’t get registered.  Lots of bots in the slums don’t get registered ‘cause they can’t afford to go to an actual repair clinic.  So there’s just as many back-alley medics that know how to get their hands on a protoform illegally.  ‘Cause it’s not legal, no one’s gonna step forward and admit it happened.  Lucky younglin’ gets raised just fine without registry.  Others fall through the cracks ‘cause of rotten creators and a system that… just doesn’t care.”

Optimus thought about how much Jazz knew about all of this.  He almost didn’t ask, it didn’t seem like his business.  But he had to know.  “Are you…?”

“I was unregistered, yeah.  My creators cared enough to bring me into this world, but then the neglect kicked in.  I had to learn everything I knew on the streets in the slums.  Like I said, though, most of them were nice bots.  I remember Alkaline who helped me sort out my readin’, and Gutter was always lookin’ out for me.  Saved my aft more than a few times.  I lucked out, though, and before I was outta my youngling-hood Bypass found me and took me in.  He was the one who got me registered to the EGDB.”

“Oh,” Optimus didn’t know what else to say.  “Did… Prowl know?”

“We didn’t keep much from each other,” Jazz answered easily.

“Consider yourself lucky.  I was his team leader and I still feel like there was so much about him I’ll never know.  He didn’t exactly like opening up to people,” the Prime said.

“I know, it took time with me, too.  Tell you what, we can sit down sometime when we’re both not busy or in public, chill, and I’ll tell you what I can about him.  Solid?”

“Solid,” Optimus agreed with a laugh.  Well, at least the tension melted out of the conversation.

Indeed the silence that followed was much more comfortable, though Jazz felt a little bad.  He hadn’t told Optimus the last reason he guessed Drift was a former junkie.  It was for the best, though.  The implications weren’t something that needed to be talked about anywhere but private, and only to the young bot in question.  He wouldn’t confront him with such an accusation without getting his facts straight first, though.  He’d made a copy of the picture of Drift from when he was a Decepticon in his file to show around in the slums.  It was time to start getting some solid answers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz hits the Dead End, the Cybertronian slums. He encounters the side no one liked remembering, where the darkest and dirtiest deals happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Nothing is actually shown, but implications of underage interfacing is mentioned. So if this makes you uncomfortable, I apologize. I really wanted to hammer home exactly how shady the area Jazz grew up in was, though.

The Dead End never changed.  Compared to the rest of the civilized populated areas of Cybertron, it was a complete dump.  Everything the rest of the world didn’t want to deal with, all of the bots and trash, trickled there eventually and were left to their own devices.  It was a dirty, violent, rust-covered slag-hole.

And yet all these centuries later, Jazz still loved it.  This wasn’t his first time back, and it wouldn’t be his last.  He came to try and do anything he could, anything the Council claimed they did but never followed through with.  He helped repair damaged buildings and homes.  Arrested the worst of the worst living there, those who came because they knew the Elite Guard didn’t care what they did as long as they stayed out of the nice, clean parts of Cybertron.  If he couldn’t do anything else, Jazz wanted to at least make the young bots that lived there realize they had a future that wasn’t just upgrade addictions and gang banging.

Not that most of the gangs here were bad bots themselves.  Most of them formed to provide the only real protection they were going to get.  But the fighting between them caused more problems than solutions, and some of them really were unsavory.

“Jazz!”

The Elite Guard member stopped and turned at the voice.  “Yo, Alkaline,” he grinned as the older femme walked up quickly.  She would have ran, but she long since couldn’t do that anymore.  There was something wrong with the joints of her arms and legs that the back-alley medics here in the slums couldn’t fix.  She couldn’t afford to go to a normal clinic, though, so she dealt with it the best she could.  “What’s shakin’, hot-stuff?” he teased, kissing her forehelm.

Alkaline was more than a million stellar cycles older than Jazz, with a fading green and brown paint-job.  She acted as a teacher to the younglings that would accept her lessons, respected for the wisdom and insightfulness she had to provide.  “Not me, love,” she replied, leaning up and returning the kiss to his cheek.  “I’m not getting any newer.  Not that I’d want to, nothing good came from looking backwards.”  She took his arm and let him help her walk down the dingy metal street.

Jazz chuckled.  He used to tell Yoketron about Alkaline, the femme who shared a name with the cyber-ninja master’s hometown and dojo.  He thought she sounded like a delightfully intelligent bot and wouldn’t have minded meeting her.  It had never happened.  Jazz would have loved for Prowl to meet her, too, but now that wasn’t possible either.  Before Bypass took him in Alkaline had practically raised him single-handedly.  He still went on trips to the slums to see her when he could while living with Bypass.  The old mech didn’t like it, not wanting him to waste his time there when he had so much potential, but Jazz wasn’t about to abandon her.

“I know that look, love,” the old femme said.  “Something is wrong.  Do you wish to talk about it?”  She never forced anyone to open up to her, and she didn’t push if someone didn’t.  It was refreshing.

“I… I met someone.  He was great, Al, you would’a gotten along great with him.  He had so much love in his spark.  He didn’t know how to show it all the time, but it was there, and it was… it was beautiful,” Jazz ex-vented softly, looking to the sky.  He hadn’t even talked about this stuff with Optimus.  He appreciated that the Prime wanted to help him, and that Prowl being his teammate meant it had a special significance to him.  But Alkaline had seen Jazz at his absolute lowest and she never judged him.  She never judged anyone.

“You’re speaking in past-tense, Jazz,” Alkaline pointed out as she nodded to a group of younglings playing in the street.  The ball of scrap-metal they were kicking around rolled over and Jazz kicked it back.  “What happened, love?”

Jazz took a deep vent and started telling their story.  Starting from when he first formally met Prowl on the Steelhaven, to their first battle together, and shortly after being parted.  He told of the two other times he ended up on Earth, with the last one having planned to be permanent with the team, and the evolution of their relationship from friends to lovers over the course of that time.  It usually took far longer over the expansive lifecycles of Cybertronians to decide who ‘the one’ was, but somehow they managed it within orbital cycles.  They were even discussing seeing if they could hold the bonding ceremony there on Earth.

And then the final battle against Megatron and the Lugnut Supremes happened.

“He loved his team and the people there on Earth so much that he… he sacrificed himself to save all of it.  I tried to convince him not to do it, that there had to be a better way.  But he was… he was stubborn beyond all reason, and that was one of the best parts about him.  Once he decided on something he was going to do there was no stopping him.  Even when it meant ripping his own spark out to complete the AllSpark,” Jazz nearly choked on the last words, fighting to keep his vocals steady.  “He saved everyone, everything, and he’s being celebrated as a hero for it.  But I just feel like there’s this… empty hole left where he was.”

“Oh, Jazz…” Alkaline’s voice was filled with sympathy that could only be achieved by someone who understood how it felt to lose someone so close to them.  “I’m truly sorry.  Not many can find their resonator, let alone under such unique circumstances.  And to lose him so quickly…”

“My… what?” Jazz looked at her in confusion.

The old femme ex-vented forlornly.  “I find it sad that no one uses this term anymore.  Most don’t even believe it exists anymore.  The reason you two were drawn so strongly to each other, why you found it so easy to decide to be bondmates even though you’d only known each other for so short of time, was because your sparks resonated.”  She placed a hand upon her own chestplate, optics shuttering.  “Every spark is different.  They pulse on different frequencies.  However, certain ones resonate when near a spark that was made for them.  They aren’t the same frequency, but instead perfectly compatible with each other.  Most Cybertronians these days don’t believe in such a thing, thinking it’s all romantic nonsense.  But it happens, and when it does…”  She pulled her hand away from her chestplate and raised it to the sky.  “It feels like everything in the universe is perfect, that it lined up exactly right just for that moment when your two sparks meet each other.”

Jazz nodded quickly.  That was exactly the feeling when he and Prowl were truly together for the first time.  Like his spark became completely light, trying to reach out to the other cyberninja.  They had been on a mission together.  Nothing too significant, it had just been a patrol.  But Jazz had stopped to observe some ‘street dancers’ as Prowl called them.  They were amazing and he had to watch, spinning and gyrating in ways he didn’t think even most Cybertronians could dream of.  When they’d moved on he was still talking about them, and Prowl sounded amused.  He didn’t seem to understand what Jazz had been so interested in with the display.  So as a joke, Jazz had grabbed and twirled him around and asked him if he could feel it.  When he’d stopped, they were chestplate-to-chestplate, just staring at each other.  He’d never forget the response he got after a few kliks of simply standing there like that.

_“Yes… I do believe I feel it…”_

            Jazz knew Prowl wasn’t talking about the dancing.

“I can feel it in you.  You loved him deeply,” Alkaline broke him away from his memories, smiling.  “Remember, Jazz.  Whenever you love someone, they will never truly leave you.  You sparkbonded, yes?”  At the near-horrified look on Jazz’s face she laughed.  “Jazz, we are neither younglings here.  There is no shame in the question.”

“Y-yeah, we did,” Jazz admitted, though his faceplate still reddened.

“Then you still have a piece of his spark within yours.  And as long as you carry on living, so will he.”

The cyberninja nodded and noticed belatedly that they weren’t walking anymore.  They’d stopped in front of her home, a particularly decrepit building that housed a good number of down-on-their-luck bots.  “You want help up to your place?” Jazz asked.

“I’m old and falling apart, but I can still manage to go upstairs,” Alkaline chuckled.  She pulled him down for one last kiss on the cheek.  “You take care of yourself.”

Before she left he remembered what he was there for.  He pulled out a datapad with the picture he pulled from Drift’s file.  “Hey, Al, you know everyone in the slums, right?” he asked.

“You know the answer to that already, Jazz.  Who do you need?”  She looked at the picture he held to her, squinting a bit.  “He looks familiar, but I don’t think I saw him around here.  Perhaps when I was visiting the other side, you can check there.  Be careful, though.  That isn’t a very nice place.”

“I know, Al.  I’ll be careful.  Thanks again.”  Jazz waved to her as she traversed the stairs, grunting as she forced her knees to bend with each step.  It hurt him to watch the kind old femme struggling so painfully against her condition.  He remembered that Ratchet was staying on Cybertron, though, and decided to ask him to take a look at her.  She wouldn’t let him pay for her repair expenses, but if he could get her help for free perhaps she wouldn’t object.

Jazz made his way across the Dead End quickly as he stopped to show Drift’s picture to anyone he passed.  The newer models were reluctant to talk to him with his Elite Guard sigil adorning his chestplate.  The older bots, though, knew he wouldn’t bring his politics there.  This place was too important to him.  Still, even they mostly just shrugged and apologized, not knowing who the young bot in the picture was.  It was making him doubt his own theory that Drift was from here, but he wouldn’t give up.  Even among the tight-knit community there it was common practice to ignore the junkies, letting them adorn the alleys like the piles of trash they were considered by most of the world.

Jazz pitied them.  He was lucky enough to avoid that path, having good guidance from Alkaline and Gutter.  But a lot of bots fell victim to the upgrade dealers that frequented the bad side of the Dead End.  Software upgrades were the most common addiction.  Promises of a quick fix to make them forget for a while that they lived in the slag-hole slums with almost no chance of digging their way out.  Reality was a harsh bondmate, though, and it was hard to face her when it came time and the temporary coding overrides of the upgrades wore off, throwing them bodily back into the truth of their situations. 

Hardware upgrades were just as dangerous, the drug of choice for the gangs.  They made them feel unstoppable, invincible even.  Hardware junkies became more paranoid of the unfairness of the world, though, believing becoming as powerful as possible was the only way to survive it.  There were far too many of those with that particular addiction who fell in with the Decepticons, looking for the kind of fix that only their weapon and mod experts could give them.  Promising a better life, just like those who lost themselves in the software.

Soon, Jazz found himself in the side of the slums he was looking for.  It was easy to tell when he arrived, the friendly faces of the nicer side melting away into untrusting, paranoid, and nasty glares.  He didn’t know too many of the bots here.  Didn’t spend time where he wasn’t wanted by _anyone_.  He didn’t trust anyone enough to stop and ask them questions.  There was no telling who could be dangerous.  The only people he could trust there were the dealers, the last ‘bots he wanted to ever deal with.  This was important, though.

The first one he spotted was on a corner, leaning against the wall of a building that looked like it should have been condemned millennia ago.  As long as he reached the dealer before he saw that Jazz was coming, he could corner him long enough to ask him questions.

This was where cyber-ninja training came in handy.  Utilizing the stealth he learned from Yoketron, the white and black mech ducked away into alleys and doorways during his approach.  Anytime the mech looked his way, he was back in the shadows.  When he got to the alley where the building the dealer was leaning on stood, he ducked quickly through the door.  Glancing around, there was no one there but a couple of femmes who would have probably looked far more surprised at his presence if they didn’t also look fried out of their processors.  He put a finger to his lip components as he headed for the nearby stairs, them mirroring the gesture then going back to their having their coding rewritten by whatever upgrade they were on.  They probably thought he was a hallucination from their high.

Jazz decided not to think on it anymore and made his way to the second floor, stepping over a few more junkies that were lying in stasis on the floor up there, probably recharging after their burnouts.  He made his way to the window above where the dealer was and leaned out, making sure he was still there.  Sure enough, the dirty brown and green paint-job was standing just perfectly under him.  That gave Jazz the opportunity to nudge himself out of the window onto the sill, dropping himself off.

The dealer screeched like a rusty nail on a piece of metal, jumping a mechanometer into the air as Jazz landed right in front of him.  He turned to run from the Elite Guard sigil glaring at him, but found himself trapped as Jazz put an arm on either side of him.  “Where you think you’re goin’, Jack?  I just wanna jive a little, ask you some questions, dig?”

“Whatever it is, I don’t know nothin’, man!” the dealer snapped, trying to duck under an arm.  Jazz blocked him with a leg and leaned in a bit.  He didn’t like playing ‘bad guard’ but sometimes it was the only way to get through to scum like this guy.

“Look, mech, I ain’t here to arrest your aft, much as I’d like to.  I’m looking for information on someone who used to live here.  You give me that, and I won’t be takin’ you in today, ya dig?” the ninjabot asked in a low voice.  “I haven’t seen you do anything yet, but I bet if I searched you I’d find somethin’ to start up a nice, long rap sheet with.”

“I ain’t got nothin’!” the dealer snapped.  At the glower he received in response, he cringed and scratched at his cheek, green pain flaking off.  “Alright, alright.  Be that as it may, I’m a good citizen and would love to help you find whoever you’re lookin’ for.  Who’re ya lookin’ for?”

“I’m lookin’ for any info you got on a kid who used to live here.  Looked like this.”  Jazz pulled out the picture of Drift and showed it.

The dealer looked at it, squinting a moment.  “I dunno, he looks too shiny.  I ain’t seen him, I can tell ya that right now.  Don’t look like a hardware user.  _Not_ that I know too much about upgrades, but I’d say if he was from ‘round here he was a software junkie.  You’re on the right part o’town for that, but he ain’t bought anything ‘round my territory.  You know how long ago he left?”

“Nah, just that he was recruited by ‘Cons,” Jazz answered.  He figured that wasn’t too dangerous of information.

“Yeah, that happened ‘round here a lot back in the solar.  I’d say from the looks of this picture he’d been off’a upgrades for at least five stellars.  Maybe more.  Upgrade addiction takes about…” the dealer scratched more paint off his chin this time while he did some calculations, “I’d say anywhere between a decade or two to fully kick, depending on how deep into it they got.  I’ve been here a lot longer than that, but I ain’t seen him, honest.  He might be… uh, I want you to promise you won’t hurt me for what I’m gonna say, cause I’m just the messenger.”

“Promise, I just want answers.”

“Alright, look for Backfire.  He’s about four blocks that way,” the dealer pointed down the block on his left.  “He probably knows your friend cause… well, he always deals to the cute ones.  They… don’t always pay in shanix, if you know what I mean.”

Jazz looked back at him in surprise, then anger.  He thought of the two femmes lying helplessly dazed in the building behind the green and brown mech.

As if reading his processor, the dealer waved his hands desperately.  “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me, mech!  I promise, I don’t touch nobody!  I’m not desperate!”

“Make sure it stays that way,” the white and black ninja growled, pushing himself away from the mech in disgust.  “Alright, I’m gonna leave you alone for now.  But I come back and see you doin’ anything, whether it’s that or just handing someone something illegal, I ain’t givin’ you a head start, got it?”

“Got it, got it!  Nothin’ illegal ‘round here, promise!” the dealer crossed over his chestplate a few times for emphasis.

Jazz ex-vented and walked away before he lost his temper and broke his own promise.  He didn’t like making deals with guys like him, but he was there with a purpose.  He’d be back someday and actually clean this place out of trash like him.  But now wasn’t the time.

It took about thirty cycles in the direction the dealer had pointed for Jazz to feel he was on the right track.  He knew when he started to notice what he had meant by Backfire liking the ‘cute ones.’  The junkies hanging around started looking younger, slighter.  Most of them had slender frames that reminded him of Drift and Prowl.  That didn’t make him like this guy any more than he already did.  As young as some of them were, they looked less afraid of him and more curious.

He knelt in front of one that was far too young to have ever known Drift, but maybe he could point him in the right direction.  “Hey, there,” he greeted gently.

The youngling tilted his helm.  He was on something, but it wasn’t strong.  That was obvious from how he could still focus on Jazz’s faceplate.  “Hi,” he finally whispered.  He had large blue optics associated with Autobots hidden behind a visor, and a blue paintjob with gold highlights.

“I’m Jazz.  What’s your designation, kiddo?”

“…Goshooter.  You’re not from around here, are you?”  It wasn’t accusatory, simply an observation.

“Not here, no.  I’m originally from the Dead End, though.  What’s a young model like you doing in a place like this?”

“Got nowhere else to go.  Creators are offline, so I came here.”

Jazz felt his spark clench at the words.  The youngling, Goshooter, lost his family.  This was probably the closest place with other bots, if he was sparked around here.  “You know a guy named Backfire?” he asked.

“Yeah.  He’s over there,” the youngling pointed down towards an alley about half a block down.  “He lets us hang around and gives us stuff to forget.”

“I see.”  Now Jazz’s spark flared in anger.  Giving upgrades to a youngling like this.  What was this guy thinking?  “He ask for anything in return?”

“Not me, no.  Most of us are too young to have shanix, so he gives us stuff for free.  The older models, they have to pay, though.  Some of them can’t pay, either.  He takes them other places for a while, and then gives them their stuff when they come back.”

“Do you know what he does when they go to those other places?”

“No.  They just come back and he gives them whatever they want.”

“Well, alright, then.  Thanks for the help, kiddo.  But can I give you some advice before I go?” Jazz asked before standing back up.

“Sure?” Goshooter tilted his helm to the side curiously.

“This isn’t the kind of place anyone should be, let alone someone young as you,” the ninjabot put a hand on the youngling’s helm.  “If you walk that way,” Jazz pointed to his left, “And keep walking, you’ll get out of here and into the other half of the Dead End.  Ask to see Alkaline and she’ll take care of you.  There’s nothin’ good that’s gonna come out of this half.”

Goshooter tilted his helm the other way and reset his optics a couple times before answering.  “I dunno…” he muttered.

“Trust me, kiddo,” Jazz said, pointing at his sigil.  “See this?  It means I’m one of the Elite Guard.  The good guys.”

The blue and gold youngling’s optics flicked from his faceplate to the sigil and back.  “…I’ll think about it, k?” he finally said.

“All I can ask for,” the ninjabot grinned, standing back up.  He waved goodbye to the youngling, who stared a moment longer before waving back.  Jazz then walked down to the alley he’d been pointing to.

He could hear voices coming from it before he even reached there.  One was deep, gravelly.  Something about it just _sounded_ slimy.  The other was young.  Not as young as Goshooter had been, but still far too much so to be in a place like this.

“…I dunno, Backfire,” the younger said, uncertainty dripping out of their vocals.

“Come on.  You can’t tell me that kind of price is too… steep for someone like you,” Backfire replied smoothly.

“Well…”

Jazz slowed and peeked around the corner of the alley, not wanting to alert them to his presence yet.  There was a red and brown mech there, faceplate covered by a mask similar to the one Star Saber wore.  He was leaning against the alley wall, a younger mech trapped between him and it.  The younger was far too shiny and clean for the Dead End.  He had a gleaming black paint-job with electric green details and a matching visor.  He wasn’t looking at Backfire, instead seeming to look uncomfortably at anything in the alley besides him.

“Yeah, no.  Sorry, I’m not that kind of mech.  You want payment, I offered it already,” the younger mech finally answered.

“You don’t seem to understand,” Backfire growled, moving his other hand up to fully trap the other mech fully.  “Around here, I run things.  I make the rules.  You don’t _get_ to say no to me, Viral.”

Jazz didn’t wait any longer.  He wasn’t going to risk some kid in the wrong part of Cybertron just so he could try and catch Backfire doing something illegal.  “Sounds like he already did, Backfire!” the ninjabot snarled, rushing out from where he hid.  He grabbed the startled Backfire by the arm and twisted it behind his back, pulling him away from the equally surprised Viral.

“What in the Pit?!” Backfire yelped, struggling and pulling against the grip of the trained fighter.  “Who are you?!  What do you think you’re doing?!”

Viral pushed himself off the wall, tensing into a fight-or-flight mode.  His optics flickered behind his visor from Backfire to Jazz.  They settled on his chestplate and widened.  “Elite Guard…” he vented out.

Backfire went still at the words.  “Oh, slag…” he groaned.  “What the Pit do _you_ want?”

“There’s a lot I want from you right now, but I’m gonna settle on arrestin’ you for assault,” Jazz answered, pulling out a pair of stasis cuffs.  “Once we get you in, I’m sure I’m gonna find a _slew_ of evidence for all the slag you’ve done here.  Dealin’ upgrades to younglings, for one thing.  Possibly interfacin’ with ‘em, too, you sick spawn of a glitch.  I don’t doubt there’s a list the size of my arm of the rest of the infractions we’ll be throwin’ you in Trypticon Prison for.”

“Wait!” Viral surprised him by rushing forward to stop him.  “You can’t take him away!  Not until he gives me what I came here for!”

Jazz stopped preparing the stasis cuffs he pulled, glancing at the much younger mech.  “Look, kid, whatever you’re hooked on ain’t worth it.  I gotta bring this guy in.  I got questions he needs to answer.”

The black and green mech actually looked offended.  “I… that’s not what I wanted from him!” he snapped.  “I’m here for _information_!  I was told he could give it to me!  But then he wanted me to pay with… well, you can guess.  I don’t care how important it is for me to find him, it’s not worth _that_.”

“You’re lookin’ for someone?” Jazz’s interest was piqued.  “Me, too.  Tell you what, I’ll let you ask first.  Then you get outta here while I take this sick frag in.”  He turned an indignant Backfire around so he faced the much younger mech again.

“Sounds good to me,” Viral shrugged, smirking.  He walked forward, pulling out a datapad.  He turned it on and faced it towards them.  “Alright, Backfire.  Since I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like you enough that I can hit you if you don’t answer, I suggest taking a real good look.  What do you know about this mech?”

Jazz’s jaw dropped when he saw the image on the datapad.

Viral wasn’t looking for just anyone.  The full-screen image was a full-body of Drift.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz gets his best lead into Drift's past yet in the mysterious Viral.

Viral was fully focused on Backfire, so he didn’t notice Jazz’s shocked expression.  The cyberninja was staring at the picture on the datapad.  It was Drift alright, though what he looked like before he was taken into the Circle of Light.  The image was a still from what looked like security footage, of Drift looking up at the camera in panic as if he were afraid of what was on the other side of it.  The Decepticon sigil blazing on his chestplate in the picture made Jazz realize he trusted the younger mech too quickly, being as he saw him as a victim.  He never checked him for allegiance.

A sweep of Viral revealed no sigil of any kind and Jazz ex-vented in relief.  Neutral.  It would have been awkward to find out he was a Decepticon.  Still, he hadn’t reacted to Jazz being Elite Guard like any Decepticon he’d ever met.

It took Jazz a moment to realize Backfire hadn’t answered.  He pulled his arm upwards sharply, causing a shock of pain to go through the dealer.  He didn’t usually rough up suspects, but this slimy fragger didn’t deserve his sympathy.  “You wanna answer his question, Backfire?” he asked just as sharply.

“Ow, ow!  Not so hard!” Backfire yelped, looking back and glaring at Jazz.  “I don’t have to answer nothin’!  You Elite Guard types don’t damage the goods before takin’ us in!”

“You’re makin’ it real tempting, though,” the ninjabot growled back.

Viral seemed amused by what was happening.  “I’m only going to ask one more time, Backfire,” he said, holding the picture closer to the red and brown dealer.  “Because he’s not allowed to do anything major to you, but I have _no_ such reservations.”

Backfire stared him down for a few moments before he seemed to realize Viral wasn’t bluffing.  “…alright, alright!” he gave in.  “I know that kid.  He was _deep_ into the software upgrades.  Loved his hits way more than his dignity.  Made him a… uh… pleasure to have around.”  He screeched a bit as Jazz tightened his hold again in anger.

The ninjabot had suspected it, but he was hoping he’d been wrong.  It was no wonder Drift didn’t trust people, if this was how he was treated when he was on the streets.

“Do you know where he is _now_?!” Viral demanded, his patience running thin.  “I know he was here before, but I need to know where he is _now_!”  His electric green visor flared dangerously as he leaned forward.

“I have no idea!” Backfire replied desperately.  He was finally really registering how dangerous of a position he was in at the moment.  Between the enraged Elite Guard ninja and the young neutral who was quickly losing all reservations he had about how he should behave.  “He was here about… maybe a century and a half ago!  But then the whole thing with his buddy and the Patrollers happened, and…”

“What thing?” Jazz asked.  “What happened?”  The question caught Viral’s attention, who looked at him curiously.  Jazz ignored it for now, concentrating on the mech he was holding.

“Shouldn’t be surprised, not like something like that would get reported,” Backfire barked out a laugh.  “Some of your Autobot Patrollers were here and doin’ their ‘job.’  You know, walking around pretending to do something important.  Mostly just scarin’ the junkies and giving us dealers a bit of roughing up before moving on.  They didn’t actually care, we all know it.  But then they found Lock, there.”

“Lock?”

“That was what we all called him.  He seemed… you know… completely locked in place.  Like he wasn’t goin’ anywhere.  We thought it was funny.”  At the glare he received from both parties he quickly continued.  “He was between fixes, fried out.  The Patrollers were makin’ fun of him, gave him a couple of kicks.  I wasn’t gonna stop them, I didn’t want to get in the middle of all that.  Better some strung out junkie than me, ya know?  But then this one mech, I don’t know his name, he was always spending time with Lock.  He jumped into get them to stop, but he must’a been way more threatening than we all saw.  Cause the next thing we knew, he was lyin’ on the street with a blaster hole through his chestplate and the Patrollers were panicking.  They finally got the Pit out of here and just… left him there.”

“And none of you did _anything_ to help him, did you?” Jazz accused.

“Hey, hey!  That guy was a friend of Lock’s, and that kid was my best customer!  I got a couple of my customers to help me drag his chassis to one of the clinics, but it was already too late.  That mech was already offline.  The laser had gone right through his spark chamber.  I actually felt kinda bad.  I’ve seen folks ‘round here go in a lot of ways, but not often they did it for someone else.  I still don’t know his name but… even I could respect that.”  Backfire didn’t look or sound insincere.  Apparently, he actually did have a spark somewhere deep under all the grime inside of him.  “We got Lock awake enough to tell him what happened, and… geez, I’ve never seen anyone spiral that hard.  He dived helm-first into the softgrades and didn’t look back.  It wasn’t even… _fun_ to collect payment from him anymore.”

“Every time I think you may have somethin’ redeeming in you, slag like that leaves your sick mouth,” Jazz scoffed, feeling the anger boil back up again.  “You said somethin’ happened after that.  What happened?”

“Like I said, he spiraled out of control,” Backfire said helplessly.  “I actually had to cut him off, cause he couldn’t pay in _any_ way for his fix anymore.  He got violent, started attacking other customers for their upgrades.  I had to pay one of the gangs to drag him off.  He left quite a bit of damage on a couple’a them, but I still felt kinda bad for what happened so I asked them not to hurt him.  Cost me extra, but as long as they were in my optic-sight I never saw them do anything to him.  I don’t know what happened to him after that.  I haven’t seen him since, I swear!”

Viral made a frustrated sound, tucking the datapad he held back away.  “Useless fragging…” he muttered, trailing off lightly so that Jazz couldn’t hear the end of the insult.  He had a feeling that was for the best.

“Thanks for the info, anyway,” Jazz said.  He slapped the stasis cuffs on Backfire, who went stiff a moment, and then limp.  He’d turned the setting on them up so he wouldn’t have to deal with Backfire for the duration of his arrest.  Now that he got what he’d wanted from him anyway, thanks to Viral, he’d let the Elite Guard deal with the red and brown slime ball.  He tossed the dealer over his shoulderplate and looked back the way he came into the alley.  If the junkies saw their dealer getting taken away there was no telling what they’d do.

“Yeah, that’s not a good idea,” Viral smirked as if reading his processor.  “Come on, I know a more inconspicuous way out.”

Jazz looked at him in surprise, but followed as Viral went further into the alleyway.  “Who’re you, anyway?” he asked as they made their way to a side-door on the building.

“Viral,” the younger mech answered.  “I should be asking _you_ that question, though.  You seemed more interested than I did in Deadlock’s story.  I’m starting to think we were here looking for the same person.”

“Deadlock?” Jazz echoed as they crossed through the first floor of the building.  He put the pieces in his head together.  He was apparently called Lock in the Dead End.  Okay, that was actually kind of clever.

“You were looking for him but didn’t know his name?” Viral asked in amusement.

“I… don’t know a lot about him,” Jazz admitted.  He didn’t mention that he wasn’t looking for Drift, simply for information.  He still didn’t know what this kid’s deal was.

“What’s your interest in him, then?” the black and green mech asked, pushing the door into the next alley open.  He held it open while Jazz went through, adjusting his hold on the unconscious dealer.

“It’s… complicated.”

“I can understand that,” Viral chuckled.  “Deadlock was a friend.  I lost contact with him a while back, then found out he’d gone rogue from the ‘Cons.  Been trying to find him ever since.”

“You were friends with him?” Jazz asked, probably a bit more excited than he should be.  This was the biggest lead he’d gotten, if at least the friendliest.  And he just happened to be in the right place at the right time for them to meet.  Primus must have been smiling down on him.  “When was this?  I can’t imagine you being a regular around here, though you do seem to know your way around a bit.”

“It was when he was in the Decepticons,” Viral answered, going into the next building.  “People always think, ‘Decepticons can’t be friends with other bots, because they’re all horrible and angry and will just kill you on sight because they don’t like your face.’  Don’t wear an Autobot badge, though, and they don’t give two frags about you as long as you’re not trying to stop them from… universal domination or whatever the frag they want.”

Jazz chuckled.  It was true, not all Decepticons were terrible.  There were a few that were downright reasonable if you stopped shooting at them for long enough.  Wing had also said something similar about not being hassled by the Decepticons because he wasn’t an Autobot.  “If you knew him as a Decepticon, I’m guessin’ you probably aren’t from Cybertron.  ‘Cons don’t really jive here, ya know?”

“No, I’m from New Kaon,” Viral surprised him by answering.

“New Kaon?  And you’re not a ‘Con?”

“Not everyone in Decepticon territory is a Decepticon,” the black and green mech huffed.  “My carrier was a Decepticon, but my sire was neutral.  They gave me the choice and I chose to stay out of the war.  But whenever Deadlock visited New Kaon with his team we hung out.”  He looked at his servos, which were the same bright green his detailing and visor were.  “Being a neutral in Decepticon territory isn’t easy, but he understood that.  He said being neutral in Autobot was much worst, though, because… well, this place is pretty much exactly what he described.  A slag hole.”

“This isn’t the only place neutrals live on Cybertron,” Jazz corrected as they passed through another alley.  He was hoping this wasn’t going to take much longer.  He felt like they were going to be crossing the entire Dead End through buildings and alleys at this rate.  “It’s probably the worst, but we don’t just throw our neutral bots away.  We’ve got a lot of places where they have jobs and homes.”

“But nothing of importance, right?” Viral guessed.  Before Jazz could retort he held up a hand, “Sorry.  I’m not here to judge you or your planet, or even the Autobots.  I’m just here to find a friend.  Maybe we can help each other out, though.”

“I’d love to, but…” Jazz trailed off, not wanting to say it.  He didn’t want to sound rude.

“But you don’t want to trust someone who was raised in Decepticon territory,” Viral finished for him, opening another door and gesturing grandly.  “It’s okay, I understand.  I don’t want to trust an Autobot Elite Guard member, either.  But here I am because I’m at a loss of what to do.  I know where he came from, what he did in the Decepticons.  I just don’t know why he left or where he went.”  When Jazz passed him he straightened and followed, closing the door a bit more slowly this time.  He looked deep in melancholy thought.  “I feel like… if I knew why he left, why he came _here_ of all places, maybe… I don’t know…”

“You’re afraid of what you’ll find, aren’t you?” Jazz guessed, putting his free hand on Viral’s shoulderplate.

“He hasn’t tried to contact me since he left,” the black and green mech nodded, looking at the ground.  “We were friends.  He wouldn’t just… just stop talking to me because he left the Decepticons.  I’m afraid he didn’t make it.  That he’s somewhere, damaged and alone or… or something worst.  And here I am, running in circles, unable to do anything to help.”

Jazz’s spark clenched in pity for the young mech before him.  He was so worried, so _scared_ for the mech that he was looking for.  He wanted to trust him completely because of it, but knew that would be unwise.  He was being sincere, but if Turmoil and his ilk found out Viral was looking for Drift it could put _both_ of them in danger.  He searched for something to say to reassure him without giving him information that could endanger Alkaline Village and Drift himself if Turmoil got his servos on him.  He considered just taking him to the dojo, to Drift, but something about that didn’t sit right with him.

“Viral… I…” he vented deeply, calming his nerves.  “I can assure you that Deadlock is fine.”

Viral’s helm snapped up, looking at him with optics wide behind his green visor.  “You… you know where he is?!” he asked in surprise.  After a moment, where the information processed inside of him, he grit his dentae.  “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Jazz cringed, not blaming the young mech for being angry at him for withholding the information.  “Look, he’s somewhere he doesn’t want to be found.  And if he hasn’t contacted you since he got there, it means he’s just… not ready yet.  I’m sure when he’s ready to let you know where he is he will.”

Viral glared at him a bit more before it melted away.  “You’re… right.  I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten so angry at you so quickly.  I’m just relieved that he’s okay.  Why are you looking for information about him if you already know where he is, though?”

“Because he’s… really confused right now.  He’s conflicted, and angry,” Jazz admitted.  “I want to help him, but until I can figure out what happened to him in his past, I can’t do that.”

“Is that so?” Viral asked, looking thoughtful.  “You know what?  As soon as you’re done taking this trash in,” he gestured to the still stasis-locked dealer, “meet me at these coordinates.  If you want to know about his past, I can help you with that.  I still don’t know why he left the Decepticons, but I know all about what happened to him inside of them.”

Jazz waited a moment and received a ping on his HUD.  Sure enough, some coordinates were displayed there.  He knew those, too.  It was Maccadam’s Old Oil House.  It had been shut down for orbitals after Sentinel became Magnus, but a petition and some substantial pull from the Council had reopened it.  “Alright,” Jazz nodded.

“Thank you,” Viral returned the gesture.  “All I ask for in return is… just tell me how he’s doing.  I understand you can’t tell me where he is, but I would at least like to feel I can really trust that he’s safe like you say.”

“Deal.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz pays another visit to Rodimus and Optimus, and Drift shows a side of himself Dai Atlas didn't know was there.

After Jazz had dropped Backfire off with the Elite Guard, filling out the full report of who, where, and why he was arrested, he stopped by Iacon General Repairs for another visit to Rodimus and Optimus.  It was on the way to Maccadam’s, so he didn’t feel like he was delaying too much.  He found them in Rodimus’s room watching an old holovid.

“Hey, mechs, what’cha watchin’?” he asked, walking in and glancing at the projection coming from the pad on the berth.

“Visiting Star Saber made me feel nostalgic,” Optimus admitted sheepishly.  “So I brought some holovids we recorded back in the Academy.”

The images projecting in the air were of two alt-modes making laps around the Academy racetrack.  The camera that was recording it was following the two cars, every once in a while a glimpse of Sentinel and Elita coming into view.  The two were cheering loudly, the sound piercing over the roar of engines flying by.

“I was recording it, at Rodimus’s insistence,” Optimus said.  “That’s him if you couldn’t tell,” he pointed to the red and orange racecar skidding around the corners recklessly.  “You can tell because he doesn’t care whether or not he _crashes_.”

“Hey, I only ever did once or twice,” the orange mech sitting next to him huffed.

“Or three times.  Or four.  Maybe five…” his fellow Prime teased.  He received an elbow as thanks.

“Who’s he racin’?” Jazz asked.  The stylish dark blue and red sports car looked familiar.

“Tracks,” Rodimus said.  “We were in the same class.  I don’t think I raced anyone more than him back then.  He was so determined to beat me, but he never did.”

“Tracks always acted like he needed to prove something,” Optimus added.  “I don’t know, maybe it’s an Elite thing.”

The Hot Rod in the holovid skid across the finish line, transforming into his robot mode and landing with both hands in the air.  _“And once again, Hot Rod takes the gold!  And the crowd goes wild!”_ he announced.

There was a pause as Tracks crossed right behind him, transforming as well.  The camera panned over to Sentinel and Elita again, both of which looked less thrilled and more annoyed.

 _“What does a mech gotta do for a wild crowd around here?”_ Hot Rod huffed.

 _“Stop being such an arrogant glitch, for one,”_ Sentinel answered in annoyance.

 _“What he means is, you don’t have to try so hard to get attention,”_ Elita-1 said, putting a hand on Sentinel’s face and pushing him back.  _“You’re pretty noticeable as you are, you know.”_

 _“No, I think he definitely means Hot Rod is arrogant,”_ Tracks retorted, crossing his arms across his chestplate.  _“I’m an attention seeker.  Hot Rod is just… infuriating.”_

 _“Hey, says the guy who did my paint-job,”_ Hot Rod laughed.

“You were always so quiet when you recorded us,” Rodimus commented to Optimus.

“I liked watching you all,” Optimus smiled.  “There’s something… special about finding a team that balance each other so perfectly.  And that’s what we all were then, weren’t we?”

“You, Elita, and Sentinel were a team,” Rodimus poked his forehead.

“Only after you left,” the blue and red Prime pointed out.  “You graduated, Tracks concentrated on his studies, and we were left as a trio.  Then we lost Elita, and Tracks decided to drop out of the Academy right afterwards.  It’s… sadly amazing how quick a team can fall apart.”

Jazz watched the exchange silently, looking at the floor at the words.  It was true, and Optimus experienced two teams fall apart now.  The loss of Elita permanently tore apart his team back in the Academy.  And now Prowl going offline resulted in the loss of most of his Earth-bound team.

“Sorry, this isn’t what you came here for,” Optimus apologized when he saw how down Jazz looked.  “How’s the search for Drift’s past going?”

Jazz looked back up, having almost forgotten these two were in on it as well.  “Pretty great,” he replied.  “I did some... information gathering back where I’m from.  While I was there I met a neutral who knew Drift back when he was in the Decepticons.  I’m on my way to meet him at Maccadam’s so he can tell me what he can.”

“Neutral, huh?” Rodimus asked, laying on his side and propping his helm up on an arm.  “You sure you can trust him?”

“I know you don’t like neutrals, Rodimus,” Jazz said in exasperation.  “They’re not all bad, though.”

“I know that, but you haven’t been around the universe as many times as I have,” Rodimus pointed out.  “At least with Decepticons I’m ready if they start shooting at me.  Neutrals I can never tell if they’re friend or enemy.  I’ve gotten jacked more by neutrals than I ever did ‘Cons.”

“He’s just worried about a friend,” Jazz assured him.  “Look, the second I feel like something’s not right I’ll leave.  Would that make you feel better?”

“Loads,” Rodimus agreed.  “Just be careful.  All you young bots think you’re invincible and know everything.”

“You say that like you’re _such_ an old model,” Optimus teased.  “Been visited by Drill Sergeant Kup recently, have you?”

“How could you tell?”

“Because you always act like you’re older than me when he comes around,” the red and blue mech pointed out.  “I feel like I should remind you that Jazz is older than both of us.”

“Which isn’t fair, cause he’s still kinda hot,” Rodimus complained.  “Not as hot as me, I know, but still.”

“Rodimus!” Optimus scolded, looking at the laughing ninjabot in apology.

“Nah, it’s alright, O.P.,” Jazz chuckled.  “I’m flattered.  You should be careful, though, Rod’.  Optimus is gonna think you’re losin’ interest in him.”

Rodimus looked horrified at the prospect, looking back to Optimus.  “You don’t really think that, right?  I mean, you know I still think you’re the hottest mech this side of Cybertron?”  Before Optimus could protest he attached himself to his arm.  “I’m sorry, I’ll never look at another mech again!”  Despite his words, they could hear the laughter muffled in Optimus’s arm plating.

“Oh, Primus… Jazz, why did you do this to me?” Optimus groaned, glowering at the ninjabot.

“Sorry, O.P.,” Jazz held up his hands.  “Couldn’t quite resist.  I’m gonna get outta here, though.  See ya mechs later!”

As he retreated quickly, he could hear Optimus behind him.  “Jazz, don’t leave me with him like this!”

 

()()()()()

 

Finding Drift wasn’t as hard this time.

Dai Atlas had already assigned him to tend to the techno-organic garden in the back.  It had new life breathed into it by Botanica, who had visited a few orbitals ago and left a list of things to keep it alive and growing.  After all, with the organic element to them they weren’t self-sufficient like the most of Cybertron.  Simply washing them of rust wasn’t going to keep them alive, something that led her to keeping most of the population from caring for them.  They required a special ‘soil’ and nutrient-rich fuel she and the Ministry of Science’s Biomechanical Sciences Division had engineered, along with regular pruning.

Drift seemed to enjoy this part of staying here.  There was something calming about him when he was left in the back with his tools, cutting away the dying leaves and branches.  He placed them in a cooler they sent back to Botanica, and the botanist used the dying samples to better improve her ‘young.’

“Drift, are you almost done?” Dai Atlas asked as he kept his distance.  Unlike Drift, something about the plant life unnerved him.  Botanica’s constant improvements to the biomechanical flora ensured that it was never the same for long, and most certainly completely different from the almost completely mechanical plants they had kept when he was a student.  Sometimes he wondered if her goal was to completely integrate organic life into the planet.  But such a notion seemed nonsense.

“I will be finished in a megacycle or so,” Drift answered, slicing a dying bud off of a bush.  He stared at the browning bud, whose petal edges were lined with fading circuitry.  “I don’t think the plants are taking, sensei.  Am I doing something wrong?”

At the worried sound in his vocals, Dai Atlas was surprised.  Drift rarely showed concern for anything outside of his own well-being.  He was easy to pass off as no more than a selfish youngling.  “Have you been caring for them as Botanica instructed?” he asked.

“I’ve followed everything to the letter.  I don’t understand why they keep dying on me,” the young soon-to-be ninjabot sighed, dropping the bud into the cooler.  It was certainly fuller than the last time he did this.  That wasn’t a good sign.

“It _is_ a fairly large garden,” Dai Atlas said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.  “Perhaps it is simply too much for you to take care of on your own.  When we open and receive other students…”

Drift scoffed.  “You think they’ll actually help with this?  Most of them will be afraid to go near it.  Anyone who _does_ want to help won’t understand how… fragile this is.”  He ran a servo gently across a large, flat leaf.  The veins reacted, the circuitry glowing aqua in proximity to his EM field.  “They’ll see the technological, but not the organic.”

Dai Atlas marveled a bit at the young mech.  Drift was moody, and argumentative.  He never wanted to do the work he was assigned, even though it was part of the agreement to keep him out of the stockade.  He wandered off whenever he could, distrusted anyone who wasn’t Wing, and even the Circle member he was secretive about his past with.

And yet here the former Decepticon was, giving insight that Dai Atlas couldn’t deny about his fellow Cybertronians.  About something as innocuous as biomechanical plants.

“Why are we supposed to be afraid of organic life?” Drift asked, breaking the blue and black mech out of his thoughts.  “Most of it is so much more… delicate than we are.  It breaks so easily.  So what are we afraid of?”

“We aren’t afraid of it,” Dai Atlas answered.  He didn’t know why he felt almost… attacked by the question.  Like he had received an insult.  “We are wary.  There’s much about organic life that we don’t understand.  It functions completely different from how we do.  It’s not fear that keeps the bulk of our population from it.  Simply… caution.”

“We’re supposed to be afraid of them because they’re different,” Drift accused, looking at the elder mech.  “Them or us, right?”

Dai Atlas vented in indignation.  Drift was referring to the conversation he had interrupted between him and Wing.  Neither had brought it up again since it happened outside of Drift giving a shame-filled apology for the way he’d spoken.  However, it was obvious he still was fixated on the ridiculous idea that the war between the Autobots and Decepticons was because of some… petty disagreement over some insignificant differences.  “Drift, you must change this tendency of yours to try and pick a fight over factions every chance you get,” the cyberninja master huffed, keeping his temper under control.  Wing had been right, Drift was trying to goad him into responding violently.  Into responding how he _thought_ he should.  But Dai Atlas wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.  “You are an Autobot now.  We did not force you to become one.  You _chose_ it.”

“Some choice,” Drift muttered, turning back to the plants and snipping some dead leaves testily.  “Turn Autobot or rust in the stockade.  Sounds more like blackmail to me.”  Even though he wasn’t facing the older mech, he seemed to sense when a retort was coming and cut him off.  “I’m sorry, that must sound to ‘Decepticon’-y.  In the Autobots you just call that a ‘deal.’  That sound more agreeable to you?”

“Drift, you have tried hard to be respectful since you came here, I can tell,” Dai Atlas said through gritted dentae.  “However, you have become more and more rebellious of late.  I don’t know what is going on, but you _will_ follow the code of respect _required_ of this dojo.  I do not want to have to tell the Autobot Council that you cannot be fully reformed.  They will not hesitate to send you to the stockade.”

At the words Drift stiffened, grip tightening on the laser-bladed sheers he held.  His hand shook, his entire field flaring with restraint.

Dai Atlas tensed as well, becoming wary that Drift may actually strike.  Though the young mech had yet to fully go through with physical violence, it seemed he had to keep himself in check in order to resist the urge for it.

“What do you care?” Drift finally asked defiantly.  It was an accusation he seemed fixated on.  It was hard to tell if he actually believed no one did, or if he was simply trying to convince himself of it.  He made a frustrated noise and haphazardly went to cut a dead branch from one of the bushes.  He overestimated in his haste, though, and cut one of the still-healthy flowers off with it.  He made a startled sound, gasping as he watched the yellow bloom fall into the soil below it.

There was a moment where Dai Atlas was sure the younger mech would get angry.  That he would curse in frustration, perhaps even throw the sheers he held.  He wouldn’t put it past Drift, who while most of the time calm would have moments of outburst when he became upset.

Instead he put the sheers down, not saying a word.  Drift then cupped the flower in his servos, picking up a container next to the cooler and hurrying inside.

Curious, Dai Atlas followed.  In the time since Botanica re-planted the techno-organic garden, Drift had never once left before finishing the tasks assigned to them to care for it.

When the Elite circuit-su master entered the sitting room behind Drift, he found him pouring the contents of the container he’d picked up into a cup.

“This seems an odd time to refuel,” Dai Atlas pointed out, raising an optic ridge.

“It’s not for me,” Drift simply said.  He picked the flower up again and dipped the cut-off end of the stem into the cup.  He gently lowered it until it rested on its own, the yellow petals sturdy enough to hold the flower on the rim so it wouldn’t fall the rest of the way in.  The dimming circuitry lining the petals relit slowly, bringing the vibrancy of its yellow out.

The elder mech stepped forward, kneeling next to the low table Drift sat at.  He looked from the flower to his charge.  Drift seemed to be concentrating fully on the flower, as if something in it held the answers to every question he wished to ask.  He didn’t understand why Drift abandoned his careful care of the garden for this simple task.

“Will the flower live in the fuel like that?” he asked, catching Drift’s attention again.  “Botanica said we must only remove the dead parts.  Anything else cut off would not survive, either.”

“It won’t live as long as the ones on the bush, no,” Drift answered, reaching forward and caressing a petal gently.  “According to Botanica, the ones in the garden will live as long as we care for them.  Most organic plants will wither, die, and then re-bloom.  But because our planet isn’t organic, and the plants are being adjusted to that, ours won’t die unless we neglect them.  And if they do, they won’t grow back.  But because I was… careless, this one will only live for a little while in the fuel.”

“Then why go through all this trouble?  That fuel is for the garden.  If that will live indefinitely, yet this one will die even if you care for it, then why not save the fuel for the ones outside?”

 “That’s it, huh?  Just because it was cut off from the rest of the garden you’d just… throw it away?”  Drift stood up, picking the cup and flower up with him.

“It is nothing but a biomechanical flower, Drift,” Dai Atlas pointed out, not pursuing him this time as Drift walked around the table towards the door.  “What meaning is there to keep it alive?”

Drift stopped at the door, turning to face him.  His gaze was cold, even bitter.  “Just because its existence is ‘meaningless’ to you, doesn’t give you a right to leave it to die.”

With that, the soon-to-be ninjabot exited, leaving his stunned master to think on the words he left him with.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz meets with Viral, and the pieces start falling into place.

Jazz arrived at Maccadam’s Old Oil House not long after having talked to Rodimus and Optimus.  He stepped inside and was immediately glad that so many ‘bots had worked to save it.  The atmosphere immediately changed from the busy, at times oppressing, feeling of Iacon City to relaxed and accepting inside of the micro-refinery.  It had always been that way.  Didn’t matter who you were, where you were from, what faction symbol you wore or if you didn’t wear one at all.  No one was turned away from Maccadam’s, and as soon as you walked in none of it mattered.  Even the worst of enemies drank and told stories, laughing like old friends, in this place.  There wasn’t anywhere like it on Cybertron.

The bar was already swinging as the lunar cycle began to creep in.  The head bartender and his staff were buzzing.  Swerve was mixing drinks like he was sparked to do this, which he might have been from the way he could juggle his tasks without losing his trademark friendly attitude.  The rowdy regulars were sitting around the bar, talking loudly to him and each other.  The booths and tables were full of bots sitting, talking, flirting, and of course drinking.  There were large-screens displaying the races on Velocitron while Rosanna’s latest song poured through the speakers in the ceiling.  One would never guess this place had to fight to stay open by looking at it.

Jazz took a look around, searching for the young black-painted mech with his distinctive green detailing.  He recognized a lot of the ‘bots in there that he swept over. 

Volks was harassing Lickety-Split at one of the tables while his buddies tried to reel him in before he got them kicked out.  Pipes and Huffer were relaxing, probably after a job well done.  The two always deserved it, as no one envied their jobs, but they seemed to enjoy it.  Chromia and her friends were gathered around one of the race screens, cheering loudly as Moonracer pulled in front.  At the sound, Lickety-Split excused herself from her eye-rolling tolerance of Volks and rolled over to join them. 

Kup sat in the corner with a mech who nodded while Kup was no doubt telling another long tall-tale.  The gangly, orange mech concentrated more on the model spaceship he was working on than his barely-touched drink.  He looked familiar, but for some reason Jazz couldn’t place his name.

There wasn’t a Decepticon to be found, but that made sense these solars.  None were going to risk going into the public, even to an accepting place like this, with Sentinel keeping a high alert out for any of them.

“Was wondering how long it took to process someone that grimy.”

At the voice behind him, Jazz jumped.  He turned quickly to find Viral smiling at him, arms crossed over his chestplate.  “Man, you scared the scrap out of me,” he admitted, chuckling.  “Anyone ever tell you that ya’d make a solid ninjabot?”

Viral laughed, shrugging.  “Not really, I’m just very good at going unnoticed.”  That was hard to believe, as his electric visor alone would be the most noticeable thing in most rooms.  “Come on, I already got a table.  I also ordered drinks.  I hope you like Stanixian, because that’s all I ordered.  Most ‘bots do, so I figured I couldn’t go wrong.”

“That’s great,” Jazz answered, following the younger mech across the bar.  They took a seat in the back, where there weren’t a lot of others.  A femme he didn’t know was glaring at her empty cube as if it would magically refill two tables over, but she was the closest.

“While I was sitting here waiting for you, though,” Viral said, lifting his own cube and taking a drink, “I realized that I never asked your name.  I guess I was so focused on Deadlock I never thought about it.”

“Oh, right.  I’m Jazz,” the ninjabot answered.  He took a drink of his as well, feeling the refined fuel cycle through his systems.  The nice thing about Stanixian Energon was that it wasn’t too strong, so he wasn’t afraid of getting carried away.  “So… I guess I’ll just start by askin’ when you met Deadlock.  Whatever you can tell me about who he was and what he was like, that’ll be helpful.”

Viral put his drink to the side and leaned forward, thinking of where to start.  “How we met isn’t all that interesting.  We just happened to be at the same little dive at the same time.  Turmoil and his crew always frequented the same three or four places.  Had to keep switching between them because they’d always cause trouble, though.”  He chuckled, leaning on an elbow.  “I was working at the time, and he had come in with his team.  He probably only talked to me because I was the only other ‘bot in there that was a newer model.”

“You worked in a micro-refinery?” Jazz asked, surprised.  He didn’t seem like the kind of mech for that kind of work.

“No, no.  My work had just brought me there.  I work special interests in New Kaon Intelligence.”

“Intelligence?” Jazz’s alerts went up.  “But… you’re not…”

“A Decepticon?  I know.  That’s actually why I pointed it out before, that on Cybertron if you’re neutral you can’t have a position of power.  On New Kaon and any other Decepticon colonies that contain neutrals, we take up about half the government,” Viral explained.  “I’ve looked into your government here, and… well, it’s certainly called the ‘Autobot Elite Guard Council’ for a reason.  On New Kaon it’s known as the New Kaonian Council.  By law, half of each faction of the government has to be run by Decepticons, while the other half is run by neutrals.  It keeps things from swaying too far towards the ‘full military government’ kind of rule, like Straxus does on Lucifer.”  He took another drink and continued.  “You remember how I said my sire was neutral?  She’s also one of the four Ministers of Intelligence.”

“You’ve got _four_ people leading your Intelligence Division?” Jazz asked in shock.

“As I said, two neutral, two Decepticon.  We’re in Decepticon territory, remember?  If there’s anything they know, it’s that you can’t trust putting just one person in a position of power.  I mean, besides Megatron, of course.  So if one person turns out to a spy, there’s three others to keep things running.”

Jazz cringed a bit at that.  Things were still chaotic in their own Intelligence Division after Longarm’s reveal towards being a spy.  If they’d had people on backup to pick up the slack when he was chased off…

“Anyway,” Viral continued, “We’re getting off track.  We’re here to talk about Deadlock, not me or the government.”

“Right, sorry,” Jazz said sheepishly.  “Go on.”

“So, again, how we first met isn’t very important.  We mostly just hung out at the bar and talked about what kind of energon we liked and who was probably winning the next gladiator matches.  It kind of went on like that for a while, since he was rarely on planet for more than a few solars and I had work.  I think it was about… I want to say two stellars after we met that we were comfortable enough with each other to talk about our personal lives.  I told him about my family and my work, and he talked about the Dead End.  It was a strange thing to listen to for someone like me.  I’ve always been had pretty important creators, though I have seen the ghettos on New Kaon.  They don’t sound anywhere near as awful as the slums here.  Seeing it for myself, I’m completely sure they’re not.”

“Hey, I grew up in the Dead End,” Jazz informed him in offense.  He had to defend his younglinghood home from criticism more in the past few solar cycles than he remembered since having to convince Bypass to stop insulting the people there.

“Well, then,” Viral looked intrigued.  “So a ‘bot can go from being nothing to Elite Guard on this planet at least.  That improves my opinion by about .07% of this place.  I digress, however.  Over the time we spent together when he was on New Kaon he didn’t tell me about how deeply down the hole he’d gone with the upgrades.  I knew he was into the stuff, don’t get me wrong.  Turmoil didn’t like his mechs to be out of control, so I think he was trying to help him get over it.”

“That’s… a lot more generous than I’d expect,” Jazz admitted.

“Can you blame him?  He found Deadlock as… gutter slag.  Something about him appealed, though, so he took him in.  He had to justify it by making sure he kept Deadlock on a tight leash.”

“Do ya know why Turmoil picked him up?” the ninjabot asked.

Viral looked thoughtful, trying to decide how to word his response.  “According to what I could dig up from Turmoil’s crew and what Backfire said about kicking him out, I think he may have happened upon Deadlock when he was lashing out during his softgrade crash.  Deadlock told me that being cut off from the softgrades when he was completely dependent on them was like… like everything was suddenly wrong.  It all hurt.”  Viral’s servos curled into fists on the table, his light frame shivering as his faceplate distorted into a pained expression.  He bit his bottom lip component, which was green against his dark-grey faceplate, before continuing.  “The only way to make everything right itself was to dive helmfirst back into the upgrades.  I can’t… I can’t even imagine how that feels.  To be in so much pain over everything and yet nothing in particular that frying your hard drive is the only way to make it go away.”

After letting Viral gather himself for a few cycles, taking some deep drinks of his Stanixian, Jazz asked, “I don’t want to get too personal, but I feel like I have to ask.  With how close you and Deadlock were, were you bondmates?”

Viral nearly spat the energon back into his cube, but managed to swallow it heavily before coughing and laughing simultaneously.  He held up a servo when Jazz made to stand up, indicating he just needed a moment.  When it finally subsided, he calmed his laughter nanokliks later.  “Oh, Primus… thank you for that.  I needed a good laugh after that heavy stuff,” he choked out, slapping his chestplate a couple of times to make sure the energon was cleared.  “No, we weren’t _involved_ like that.  I swear, these solars two bots can’t be friends without everyone assuming they must be fragging.  We’re _just_ friends.  Don’t get me wrong, Deadlock was fun and kind of cute.  But he isn’t even close to being my type.  I like much larger frames, something that flies.  Preferably with some heavy weapon mods.”

“A yes or no would have sufficed,” Jazz chuckled as well.  “Didn’t need your dating profile.”

“I was making a point,” Viral said, sticking his glossa out at him.  Despite how mature he’d been acting for most of the conversation, that was a very quick reminder how young the black and green mech was.  “Anyway, Backfire said he had to have one of the gangs there remove Deadlock from his territory because he’d gotten too violent.  He was cut off completely from his upgrades now, so I imagine he only got angrier and more violent.  What if he finally… you know, offlined someone?”

“Over upgrade withdrawal?” Jazz asked in disbelief.  He had to admit, he didn’t want to think of the possibility of the mech staying in Alkaline being capable of such a thing.

“Like I said, back then he felt like not having his upgrades was a fate worse than going offline.  If he was desperate enough to attack other junkies over it, why not take it to the next extreme?”  Viral seemed far more comfortable with this idea than Jazz was, but that was probably a side effect of growing up in Decepticon territory.  “Once he got into Turmoil’s crew he was completely happy, though.  It took stellars for him to realize that Turmoil was getting him off of the upgrades.  Probably was just being given less and less without realizing it.  You know, give him just enough to be satisfied and pull that amount back over time.”

“That’s how most ‘bots kick it.  The only other option is complete cutoff, and… well, you heard what happened last time someone did that to him.”

“He seemed pretty content, anyway.  They’d go out on missions, wipe some organic species off the face of their planet, he’d come back, we’d have drinks and chat about it, and then the whole process would repeat itself.  He changed over time as he softgraded less.  Never got any mods or hardware upgrades, which I always thought was kind of strange.  Then again, mixing hardware and software upgrades is rarely a good idea.  Even in ‘Con territory it’s considered desperate and unintelligent.”

“What do you mean by ‘he changed over time?’  Changed how, exactly?” Jazz asked.

“Just… changed,” Viral answered, shrugging.  “I didn’t mind it.  He was still my best friend, no matter what.  But he started… I don’t know, enjoying it less I guess.  He still had funny stories to tell about particularly stupid organics who thought they actually stood a chance against a Decepticon cleaning crew.”  The intelbot laughed, seeming not to notice that the cyberninja he was talking to didn’t find anything funny about it at all.  “He just had… less of them over time.  I guess kicking the upgrades mellowed him out a lot or something.  Anyway, he also became more interested in my life as time went by.  Even though he got more open about his own, he became ironically more reluctant to talk about it after he opened up.  Maybe he thought that because I’m from a high status sparkline it bored me or something.”

Jazz nodded, still paying attention but at the same time putting all of the pieces he’d learned over the last few solars into place in his processor.  Everything he’d heard from Dai Atlas, Drift, Wing, Bypass, and Viral were sorting themselves out and then clicking together like a puzzle.  He was starting to get a feel of not only who Drift used to be and why he hated Autobot authority, but why he also came to run away from the Decepticons as well.

“I know that look,” Viral said, snapping him out of his thoughts.  “I’ve been in the intelligence business far too long to not recognize it.  You’ve gotten what you needed, didn’t you?”

Jazz looked at him in surprise, then smiled.  “Yeah, I think I have.  I couldn’t have done it without you, though.”

“You going to tell me what you figured out?  Or is that one of those ‘you don’t trust me enough to tell me’ things?” the black and green mech asked.  When Jazz didn’t answer for a moment, he held up a hand.  “No, it’s fine.  I understand.  You just found out I work for the New Kaonian Department of Intelligence, thus closely with the Decepticons.  If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t trust me either.  During this conversation I’ve come to the decision I trust you enough to believe Deadlock really is safe wherever he is.  All I can ask is that you keep up your end of the bargain.  Please, just tell me how he is.”

“Like I said in the Dead End, he’s confused.  And angry.  He’s also just as untrustin’ as you are, and doesn’t want to trust me or the Autobots anymore than you do,” Jazz answered.

“Good to know he still has most of his common sense intact, then,” Viral grinned, leaning forward.  He propped his elbows on the table, weaving his servos together and placing his chin on them.  “Is he keeping himself occupied?  After he kicked the softgrades he always needed something to keep him busy to keep his processor off of them.”

“Yeah, he’s…” Jazz almost said he was helping restore the Alkaline Dojo.  That he was preparing to learn circuit-su.  He caught himself, though.  “He’s reading,” he settled on.  “Once Upon a Hill of Scrap.  You ever read it?”

“My sire read that to me when I was a youngling,” the young mech answered.  “It’s been a very long time, though.  I remember thinking it was… strange.”

“Strange?” Jazz echoed, not understanding.

“I didn’t understand Spinout.  What did he really want?”

“He wanted to find a place where he mattered.  Somewhere he could really call home.”

“Then why didn’t he just…?” Viral ex-vented, shaking his helm.  “Nevermind.  That’s not important.  I’m glad he’s alright, anyway.  Can you do me one last favor in exchange for the information I gave you?”

“Sure, whaddaya need?”

“Can you please keep an optic on him?  I’m not asking for reports, but… just in case I get another chance to come back before he’s contacted me.  I’d like to continue knowing he’s okay.”

“I’m actually not gonna be on planet much longer,” Jazz informed him.  “I’m on a team that’s goin’ on assignment elsewhere.  I wish I could do that, but… look, how about instead I ask Deadlock if he’ll give you a call himself every once in a while?  He doesn’t have to give you any information he doesn’t want to.  He can just let you know how he’s doin’.”

Viral looked unsure at first, then smiled.  “Sure.  That’d be great.  Thank you, Jazz.  You’ve been a lot of help to me.”

“Not as much as you’ve been to me, let me assure you,” Jazz smiled back, standing up.  “Thanks to you, too.  I’m glad I ran into you.”

“And you as well,” Viral followed him, pulling out a card.  “Since I ordered the drinks, I’ll go pay for them.  I hope I can talk to you again, even if you’re going away.  You give me… hope that not everyone in the Autobots or the Elite Guard is a complete aft.”

“When you put it like that, I feel obligated to let you buy those drinks,” the white and black ninjabot laughed.  “I wouldn’t object to another conversation with you, either.  See ya later, Viral.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift can hide from his past, but he can't deny it any longer. Sometimes the best thing to do is face it with some help from a friendly servo.

The next solar found Drift on a break.  He sat in the room he was given in the Alkaline Dojo, legs folded under him on the berth as he stared at the flower on his berthside table.  Besides that, the room was almost barren of anything else that made it his own.  What else did he have, after all?  He lived in the Dead End with nothing, left the Decepticons with nothing.  The only thing he came here with was…

He reached to the old, worn datapad next to the flower.  When he had agreed to slap on an Autobot sigil and play nice, Wing had offered him a new datapad with the story in it.  Drift asked him if the ‘pad he was borrowing was special to him, and that was why he wanted it back.

 _“No,”_ Wing had chuckled.  _“I simply thought you’d want something that wasn’t so… used.  This one is scratched and the buttons need some extra effort to press them.”_

 _“I don’t care,”_ Drift answered.  _“I like this one.  If it’s not special to you, it’s…”_   He had trailed off, thinking it a stupid thing to say when he processed it.

 _“It has become such to you, hasn’t it?”_ Wing surprised him by asking.  _“I understand.  You may keep this one, then.  I ask only one thing in return.”_

 _“What?”_ Drift had felt a sinking feeling at the words.  He didn’t want to think badly of Wing, who’d been nothing but patient and kind to him since they met.  But he had never had… good experiences with others saying such words.

_“When you are done reading this, tell me what you learned.  There’s a lesson in these words.  So when you finish, please tell me what it was.”_

Drift was almost three-fourths of the way done with the story by now, and he still wasn’t sure what Wing had meant.  He could definitely relate to Spinout and his crew of misfits, and their want to do something bigger and better with their lifecycles, but he wasn’t sure what there was to be learned from it.

He powered it up to where he last left off and began reading.

_Just as Spinout and Firebrand thought themselves doomed, staring at the looming creature above, there came a sound they never thought they would welcome.  A sound that pierced the lunar cycle like feedback, sharp and startling and wonderfully savage._

_Shear descended from the pillar above like a vast, predatory bird, shrieking her primal war cry.  Her gleaming red and black paintjob sliced through the air as swiftly as her metal-and-laser blade did through the Igyak’s neck, severing its head.  She landed gracefully next to the mechs, whom were too entirely stunned to react._

_“I told you,” she said haughtily as she pulled a cloth from a hip compartment and began cleaning off the powered-down blade.  She seemed perfectly content to ignore the filthy organic substance that now covered the rest of her frame.  “Do not run off without me.  Your people may be more ‘advanced’ than mine, but you are useless without the ability to fight.”_

_Firebrand closed his mouth and sneered at her.  “I can fight perfectly fine!” he insisted.  “My rifle broke when I fell, though.”_

_“You do not fight, you let your laser machine do it for you.  That is not fighting.”_

_“Tell me that when I save your aft with it!”_

_“I would like to see the solar.”_

_Spinout stepped between the warrior and the soldier, separating them before they could start another brawl.  “Hey, hey, you two!  This isn’t the time or place!  We’re still hics from the ship, and the lunar cycle on this planet lasts five times longer than any of the ones we’re from!  So let’s just keep walking and hope we can either find a safe place to recharge or actually get in range of the ship’s comm!”_

_The two bickering ‘bots stared at him in surprise.  That was the first time either had heard him raise his vocals like that before.  They then looked at each other.  “He’s right,” Firebrand begrudgingly admitted.  “We can settle this another time.  Right now, we’re up to our optics in trouble.  And you’re up to yours in… whatever the Pit that thing bleeds.”_

_Shear looked down and shrugged.  “Among my people, if you are not covered in your enemy’s fluids then you have not had a good solar cycle.”_

_The red and yellow soldier bust out a hearty laugh, slapping her on the back.  “Your people may be primitive, but they have a spirit I can relate to!  Alright, let’s get moving!”_

_Spinout ex-vented in relief and followed them as the two led.  It was true, he didn’t like to put himself in the middle of confrontation.  But he couldn’t stand to see members of the crew he’d gathered split themselves apart over petty quarrels.  They were more than crew now.  More than even friends to him._

_They were family._

“Drift!”

Dai Atlas’s vocals and his knocking at the berthroom door pulled the young mech out of the story.  He ex-vented in annoyance, hating to be interrupted.  Still, he put the datapad back to the side and pushed himself off of the berth.  Opening the door, he tried to put on his most respectful look he could manage.  “Yes, Master Dai Atlas?” he asked the elder mech.

“Jazz is here to see you.  He waits in the sitting room for you,” Dai Atlas told him, stepping out of the way.  “Do not keep him.”

“Of course, sensei.”  Drift bowed to him, heading down.  He had to be good and polite until he felt things cooled down between them once again.  He still hadn’t apologized for the words he’s had the last solar over the flower he kept.  He refused to this time.  He hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true.

When Drift arrived in the sitting room, the white and black cyberninja was waiting for him.  His unreadable visor was annoying to Drift.  It was near impossible to tell what he was thinking half the time.  It reminded him of Viral.

No, it was better not to think of Viral.  Not now.

“Good solar, Jazz,” Drift decided to hold up the formalities, bowing to the Elite Guard mech.

“Yo, Drift,” Jazz grinned, raising a hand in greeting.  He sat in the same place at the low table where the younger mech had been when he poured the fuel for his flower.  “What’s shakin’?”

Drift wasn’t sure how to answer.  Jazz didn’t act like anyone he’d met in either the Decepticons or Autobots.  Not even anyone in the Dead End, though there was a bit of an air about him of that but… no, that was ridiculous.  “What did you need me for?” he asked instead, walking over and sitting across from him.  He glanced behind him to make sure Dai Atlas hadn’t followed.  With all the questions Jazz kept asking about his past, he didn’t want anyone to be spying on them.

“Don’t worry, Dai Atlas is gonna leave us alone,” Jazz said, reading his movements.  “I asked him to give us space, since you aren’t comfortable talkin’ ‘bout this stuff.”

“I already said I’m not talking about this,” Drift snapped at him.  He didn’t mean to be rude, really.  But he got defensive when his past was brought up.

“That’s fine.  Ya don’t hafta talk, except maybe to fill in some blanks.  Otherwise, just listen, dig?” the older ninjabot said.  He leaned forward, venting in and starting.  “Ya grew up in the Dead End, right?  I don’t know what happened with your creators, I’m not that good.  Either they didn’t want ya, or they went offline.  Either way, ya didn’t have anywhere to go as a younglin’.  When did ya end up in Backfire’s territory?”

Drift could feel his venting picking up at the words.  He clenched his servos into fists, trying to keep some control over how he reacted.  It wasn’t easy, though.  He hadn’t heard the designation Backfire in more than a century.  He didn’t want to.  How deep did Jazz dig?  “I… I don’t remember.  I was really young.  I don’t know what happened to my creators either.  They sent me out to do… something…”  Sorting his early memories was hard.  All of the softgrades he’d used for centuries had messed everything up, some of it permanently.  “I came back and they were just… gone.  I waited there for them, but they never came back.”

“You had nowhere to go,” Jazz said with far more sympathy than he should have been capable of.  It wasn’t false, it sounded completely genuine.  “I know what that’s like.”

“How could you?!” Drift snapped before he could stop himself.  Jazz didn’t even react to it, and that only made him more frustrated.  “How could you even _possibly_ know what it’s like to be alone in the Dead End?”

“Because I was once,” Jazz answered, stopping him cold.  At Drift’s shock he gave a wry smile.  “I was abandoned in the Dead End practically from when I was sparked.  If it weren’t for some of the ‘bots there that took me in, I might’ve ended up where you did.  But I think you were sparked on the wrong side of it.  You didn’t even have a chance to find someone who cared.  So ya found Backfire instead.”  When Drift didn’t answer, still trying to process the idea that Jazz had been street scrap like him once, the white and black ninjabot continued.  “He probably started you off slow, didn’t he?  Gave you somethin’ to forget that your creators didn’t care.  Then somethin’ to make you feel better about where you were.  Somethin’ to make you feel more important.  Always somethin’ a little more every time.”

“He made me feel like… nothing,” Drift admitted, shoulders slumping.  He’d never admitted this to anyone.  Then again, no one had managed to figure this much out on their own.  “Always reminded me that I was just street trash, would never amount to anything, that even my own _creators_ didn’t want me.  But then he’d give me the software and… and then I’d forget all of that.  I was just a youngling, I didn’t…”

“I know,” Jazz reached across the table and put a hand on one of the fists there.  “You didn’t know what the stuff was doin’ to you.  He was an older model, you were supposed to be able to trust him.  And it was all free, so ya felt like there was nothin’ to lose.”  His faceplate dimmed and Drift felt his spark sink.  He _knew_.  “And then it wasn’t free anymore.  He asked for shanix at first, right?  Where’d you get that?”

Drift hesitated, but knew there was no use lying about anything to this mech.  Somehow he’d managed to figure out all the vilest stuff.  How could he make it worse?  “I stole it, mostly.  Not too many people in the Dead End had anything, but… no matter how little they had it was more than me.  I felt like they owed it to me.  Backfire never asked where the shanix came from, so I didn’t have to feel guilty.”

“But then one solar you somehow didn’t have enough, right?”  Jazz didn’t sound disgusted, which wasn’t what Drift was expecting.  What he had done to get his fix _was_.  “He asked you to pay another way, didn’t he?”

Drift pulled his hand away from the one on top of it, not wanting to be touched all of the sudden.  Not while talking about this.  Just remembering it, even though a lot of it was still dimmed by the software haze he’d buried himself in, made his tanks feel sick.  “I didn’t want to at first.  He kept telling me how… _cute_ I was,” he spat the descriptor like venom.  “Like that made it okay.  When I wouldn’t give him what he wanted through, he threatened to cut me off.  It seems so… so stupid now, that I felt so desperate.  Pit, I could have probably gone to any other dealer and gotten the same upgrades for the shanix I had.  But it never even occurred to me, and all I wanted was to feel _right_ again.  And then once I…” he swallowed heavily, forcing himself to keep talking, “… _paid_ , that was what it became about.  It was so much easier than having to go out and steal stuff.  It was almost guiltless.  And the softgrades made me forget that I… that he…”  He covered his faceplate with a hand.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jazz said gently.  He surprised him by giving him a lopsided smile.  “If it makes you feel any better, Backfire is goin’ to Trypticon now.”

Drift looked at him in shock, unable to believe his audials.  “You… you arrested him?” he clarified.

“Yeah.  Caught him tryin’ to gather up some payment that way.  Mech said no, he wouldn’t take it for an answer.  He ain’t gonna hurt anyone else where he’s goin’, though.  I checked in before I got here.  They’ve already piled up enough evidence against him to keep him in Trypticon for a few millennia, and they’re still goin’.”

“Ha… haha…” Drift couldn’t help the half-manic laugh that split out of his vocals, leaning on the table and covering his faceplate with both hands.  “Backfire is going to Trypticon!  The place I was supposed to!  That’s… that’s rich!”

Jazz chuckled, then waited patiently for Drift to regain his composure.

Honestly, Drift wasn’t sure if he was laughing out of relief or panic at this point.  On one hand, Backfire deserved everything that was coming to him.  Everything he did to not just Drift but all of the ‘bots that lived in his territory in the Dead End, it was a long time coming.  But on the other hand, this had the potential of opening a floodgate on the Dead End.  As much as Drift was glad to have escaped from that slag-hole of a slum, not everyone there deserved the hammer of the Elite Guard to come down on them.

Once he finally calmed himself, Drift looked up and smiled sheepishly at Jazz.  That was the first smile, the first _laugh_ , he’d given since leaving the Decepticons.

No.  Since Dabola.

“Sorry.  I guess I’ve just… I’ve been waiting for so long to hear that he got what he deserved.  But… if you know about that, I guess you know about why I couldn’t stay,” the young ninjabot-to-be said.

“What was his name?” Jazz asked.

“Gasket,” Drift answered solemnly, looking at the table.  “He was probably the only person who cared about me there.  As far as I knew, he never got into the heavy softgrades.  He told me once that he needed it because of a condition he had, but he couldn’t afford to go to a clinic.  Even the ones in the Dead End overcharged for the stuff they stole to sell there.  So he found the dealer that was selling it the cheapest, and it happened to be Backfire.  He wasn’t originally going to stick around with all the strung-out junkies, but apparently something about me just… made him feel like he had to take care of me.  He watched over me when I burnt out, and tried to get me away from the softgrades.  But I was stubborn and stupid, and couldn’t recognize that he just wanted me to get better.”

“And then the thing with the Patrollers happened,” Jazz said.

“Yeah… then the Patrollers…” Drift trailed off.  Almost all of his processor was telling him to stand up and leave.  He didn’t want to remember this stuff.  He wanted to forget.  He wanted to just… just…

He grabbed his helm and concentrated, venting heavily.

No.  _No._   He was past this.  He didn’t need them anymore.

“You still get urges, don’t ya?” Jazz asked through the storm of conflicting messages raging inside of him.  “I thought when you got like this, looked like you were controllin’ an urge, when we first met that you were restrainin’ yourself from attackin’.  But that’s not it at all, is it?  When you feel threatened or hurt, you want to take them again.”

Drift gazed up at him, expecting disappointment.  He shouldn’t have been surprised anymore at the calm patience that was still there.  “I… I can’t help it.  I took them for so long, using them to forget all the bad stuff…”  He cringed and vented a few more times until the pain in his processor finally subsided.  “I don’t want to need them.  I feel so… weak.”

“That’s the Decepticons talkin’, isn’t it?” Jazz guessed.  “Is that what Turmoil told you?  That it was weak?”

Drift stared at him, crestfallen.  He knew what team he was with.  He knew what they _did_.  He should have felt relieved that Jazz still wasn’t judging him, that he wasn’t angry or disappointed or disgusted.  Instead it was frustrating.  Why _wasn’t_ Jazz any of those things?  He was _supposed_ to be those things!  His past _was_ horrible and disgusting and it was his fault!

“We’re not talkin’ about that yet, though,” the ninjabot continued, seeming to ignore Drift’s conflict.  “What happened after Gasket was murdered by the Patrollers?  All I know is that you... spiraled was what Backfire called it.  Went hard into the softgrades and refused to come out.  He couldn’t afford to keep you around without you payin’ proper for them, so he had a gang take you away.”

“I don’t remember too much about that time,” Drift admitted.  “Maybe I just don’t want to, or the softgrades actually wiped that entire part of my memory out of my coding.  Either way, all I remember after they told me Gasket was… was offline was waking up in an alley somewhere.  It wasn’t Backfire’s territory, I knew that, but that wasn’t important.  I hadn’t been recharging.  It was more like… when the software wears off and I came out of a burnout.  I remember looking around, and… and two ‘bots were offline there.  Three ‘bots I didn’t know were standing there in the alley with me.  One of them said he happened to be in the area when he noticed I got in a fight with the other two.  I thought they’d come to my aid.  That they were the ones who did it.  He informed me that… no.  It was me.  I offlined them.  He’d never seen anyone fight so fiercely, with so much intent to end a lifecycle.  He offered me a chance to leave the Dead End, to actually go out there and make something of myself.”

“His name was Turmoil,” Jazz said.  It wasn’t a question, but a statement of facts.

“Yeah,” Drift confirmed quietly.  “He said he wanted me on his team, that it would be better than staying there where there was nothing but addiction and a gutter.  I couldn’t say yes fast enough.”  He ex-vented, looking back up at Jazz.  “You know what the sickest part was?  I didn’t even care that I’d killed two ‘bots.  That I was getting recruited for my ability to relentlessly terminate someone else’s lifecycle if mine depended on it.  All I knew was I was getting out of there.”

“He bought some softgrades while you were there, right?  To keep you satisfied until you could get off’a them.”

“I didn’t know that was the plan at the time.  It was…” Drift did some calculations in his processor.  “Probably five decades in when I even realized I wasn’t getting even half as many softgrades as I did when I started.  I was mad at first, until he told me he was doing it for my own good.  I mean… he acted as though he actually _cared_ for me.  Said he wanted me to be better than the useless junkie he found in the alleyway, covered in someone else’s energon because I couldn’t deal with the idea of living without them.  That mech was weak.  He didn’t deserve to be online.  But he picked me up and gave me a purpose, and I wasn’t going to waste the lifecycle he gave me.  He would rather offline me with his own servos than let it happen.  It sounds stupid now, but back then that was the most hopeful thing I’d ever heard.  So I started going cold on the softgrades from then on.  I was determined to kick them myself, even if I had to deal with the massive withdrawal symptoms of cutting myself off.”

“Was that when you realized what Turmoil’s team was doing was wrong?” Jazz asked.

Drift vented in deeply.  This was it.  Talking about how he’d ‘payed’ Backfire was nothing compared to what they were about to discuss about his past.  He knew Jazz was already aware of what it was.  He’d made that much obvious.  He was still nervous saying it out loud, though.  Still, this was something he had to talk about.  The more he discussed his past, the strangely… better he was feeling about it.  Especially since Jazz didn’t seem to think less of him.  Then again, as he had thought before, it was very hard to tell with that visor.

“You know about what we did, then,” Drift said, deciding he should confirm it first.

“You were a cleaning crew,” Jazz answered, making sure there was no doubt.  “You went to organic planets to wipe any resistance off of them before they got cyberformed.”  There it was.  For the first time since they started talking Jazz finally sounded disgusted.  Drift knew this would be what it was over.

“That was us,” the younger mech nodded.  “And I didn’t actually start realizing what was wrong yet.  Back then, even when the upgrades were releasing their hold on me, I still didn’t think what we were doing was wrong.  I mean… they were just organics.  They hate us cybernetic species anyway.  To us, we were just wiping out a threat preemptively while expanding the territory.  We’d invade a planet, anything that recognized our threat would fight back, and we’d cut through them like a laser through soft metal.  The software upgrades had made it seem… almost surreal to me, so I think that’s why I’d enjoyed it so much when I was on them.  I really did have fun cutting them down.  I’d walk away covered in… whatever they bled.  Laughing with the rest of the crew like we were just out playing a game.  I guess that’s what it was to me.”

“From what I hear, ya still changed over time.  Like you said, you enjoyed it on the software.  Did ya not when you got off’a it?”

“I didn’t really stop enjoying it as much as... as start taking it more seriously.  It went from being something I was doing for fun to something I did because it was my duty.  Turmoil took me in to wipe these creatures out of the universe, and since they obviously had no qualms about offlining us it was fine.”  Drift rolled a servo of one hand between two in the other for a moment, swallowing a lump in his throat components.  He felt that urge to forget in the back of his processor, but it was less prominent now.  He ignored it and continued, knowing he had to say it.  No matter how painful it was.  “It was fine until Dabola.”

Jazz leaned forward, focusing completely on him.  It was actually very intimidating, having someone put their full attention on him.  “What happened, Drift?” he asked, keeping his vocals steady.  It was obvious he wasn’t completely comfortable hearing about their work, but he wanted to help.  He was putting his own feelings aside so Drift could talk about what he’d been hiding from everyone, even Wing.

So Drift took a breath and began telling his story.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift reveals what happened on Dabola.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, what happens in this is NOTHING like what happened in IDW's comics covering Drift's backstory outside of a couple incidentals. 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains violence involving actual organic beings. While nothing graphic happens, if you're made uncomfortable by blood and people dying... well, I've given you my warning.

“Alright, you piston-heads, listen up!”

Deadlock stopped talking to Carnivac and turned to Turmoil.  The imposing mech stood at the front of the room next to a large screen that spanned a good chunk of the wall.  The rest of the crew had also settled down from their chatting and laughing to pay attention.  No one dared defy Turmoil.  He wasn’t afraid to put down his own crew members if he wasn’t satisfied with them.

“We’re heading towards Dabola this time,” Turmoil announced, pressing a button on the computer.  “This ball of dirt and Primus-knows-what is just outside our territory, and the higher-ups have decided it’s an eyesore.  So we’re going in there, doing our jobs, and getting it ready to be cyberformed and colonized.”

“What’s the resistance looking like?” Astraea called from the back.  The femme in dark blues with lighter ones for trim leaned against the wall.  She wasn’t much for socializing, but no one complained.  Everyone was at least a little afraid of her.  She had an energon lust that was off-putting to even most Decepticons.

“The species is like most organics,” her commander answered, clicking through several images.  They were shot from above the planet and then enhanced.  Large buildings spanned most of the images.  They were heavily enforced, with artillery on the walls.  “Expect your welcome to be unfriendly and full of exploding projectiles.  Most of the population seems to have been militarized, as these structures are the ones predominantly found across their civilization.  They’ve likely been preparing for our arrival.  Seeing as they’re so close to us, it’s not surprising.”

“Gonna be a good fight, then, eh?” Deadheat barked out a laugh.  “Gonna kill me some squishies today, mechs!”  His red paint job stood out among the darker colors around him, but that was the way he liked it.

“Save some for the rest of us, loser!” Carnivac yelled back, joining him.

Deadlock forced a laugh, but didn’t feel it.  Half of it was because something about this mission didn’t feel right.  He didn’t know what it was, but it was like something nagged him in the back of his processor.  The other half was simply because he’d never really liked Carnivac.  Pretenders always gave him the creeps.

“Enough!” Turmoil bellowed over them, regaining their attention.  “I’m about to go over the battle plan, so pay attention!  I see one bot out of formation and I’ll be leaving him behind on that dirt-ball, got it?!”

“Yes, sir!” was the chorus he received in response.

It took nearly the entire megacycle for Turmoil to go over everything.  Not a Decepticon was left that hadn’t been given an assignment during it all.  Deadlock himself was going to be joining Carnivac, Deadheat, and Astraea on the front line for one of the major targets.  There were five military structures in all to wipe out, so Turmoil’s forces had to be split up for it.

“Alright, Team Rush ‘Em!” Deadheat bolstered, throwing arms around Deadlock and Carnivac’s shoulderplates.  “Whaddaya say, guys?  Wanna see if we can clear the buildin’ before any of the others get there?”

“They’ll be _shooting_ at us with those giant cannons, dumbaft,” Deadlock said, shoving the arm off of him.  “We need to be careful, not rush in.”

“Don’t even bother with him,” Astraea huffed, walking just behind them.  “You know Deadheat doesn’t have a survival circuit in that empty dome we call a processor.”

“Yeah, but I’m not dying just so he can play dodge-shell with the artillery.”

Carnivac scoffed.  “You afraid of the big, bad cannons, Deadlock?  Come on, this is just like the last dozen times we had to rush an armed military facility.  We go in, make sure we don’t get hit, step on a few hundred squishies, and go home to get payed.”

The femme with them sighed, rubbing her faceplate with a hand.  “I swear, you and I are the only two with processors in this team, Deadlock,” she muttered.

“Not arguing with you on that one,” the younger Decepticon chuckled.  That bad feeling was still lingering, and he considered at least telling Astraea about it.  Even though she turned into a ruthless killing machine as soon as she was on the field, she at least had sense unlike the other two.  But… no, maybe telling the only other logical person on the team that he was having doubts because of some obscure feeling wasn’t a good idea.  She might discount him as well if he did.

They boarded the carrier pod that would deposit them in a pre-programmed location mechanometers outside of the facility they were going to attack along with the rest of the unit that would be following them.  Deadheat and Carnivac continued to be loud and obnoxious, annoying him and Astraea, but they soon learned to ignore them so they could concentrate on getting themselves in the zone.

Deadlock shuttered his optics and visualized the facility as he’d seen it on the screen.  The structure was huge, meaning the army inside had to be equally impressive.  It was hard to say if they had military vehicles, as all of the recon and surveillance they’d done had only ever shown anyone leaving in armored vehicles for a few megacycles and then returning.  The vehicles appeared to only go between the military facilities, but they didn’t appear to be armed.  The presence of the heavy artillery and the heavy, thick walls and doors of the buildings made it clear they’d seen and were prepared for war.  There was battle damage littering most of the walls, but nothing had penetrated them too deep.

Thinking of how prepared they were for a fight made Deadlock angry.  Like most Decepticons he hated organics.  They pointed fingers at Cybertronians and Kaonians, Autobots or Decepticons, accusing them of being nothing but war-mongering death machines.  They were complete hypocrites, though.  They saw wars, even with their own people, just as much as the mechanical beings did.  Their civil wars didn’t usually last as long, but that was because their lifecycles were shorter and thus new generations came quicker that could put a stop to it.  And their squabbles were so much pettier.

No, Deadlock never regretted the choice he made to wipe out organic life from the universe.  They hated him without even knowing him, wouldn’t hesitate to offline him first.  Why shouldn’t he return the favor?

The thoughts focused him, reigning in his doubts.  Carnivac was right, something he was loathe to admit even in his head.  This was just like every other mission of the sort.  Go in, wipe them out, and go home.  As long as he concentrated on his anger and hatred of the organic creatures inhabiting the planet he would be fine.

The pod landing brought him back into the moment.  He felt the landing gear impact, the hydraulics on it decompressing.  He looked at the viewing screen that projected the area around the pod.  It was almost nothing but huge, thick foliage.  Just above the tree line he could make out the shape of his target: the military facility.  Even at a distance it looked far larger while on the planet than it did on the surveillance footage.  Turmoil indicated the organics were about half the size of themselves on average, judging by the size of their facilities and vehicles.  That would make things only slightly easier, as they still had to deal with the heavy artillery.

Carnivac and Deadheat luckily went into work-mode as they exited the pod, Deadlock and Astraea following behind them.  They quieted and became more focused on their jobs.  Despite their obnoxiousness and bluster, they were professionals when it came to killing.  After all, Turmoil wouldn’t allow anyone in his army that would be a risk on the field.  The four Decepticons made their way through the forest swiftly, going through anything that could go down in a single swing or blast.  They didn’t have to be quiet.  They were the frontline.  Their job was to bring the panic.

As they approached the building, Deadlock took in his surroundings.  The giant, thick trees were large enough that they couldn’t be taken down with a laser-blade stroke or cannon blast like the rest of the foliage.  There wasn’t any sign of organic fauna, but that was to be expected with all the noise they were making.

“Looks like we announced ourselves loud enough!” Carnivac called out, pointing to the building that appeared past the thick greenery.  The protective gates covering the wall artillery was pulling back, the huge cannons rumbling out of hiding.

“Good, makes it easier to do this!” Deadheat laughed as he ejected his laser rifle from his forward compartment and caught it, taking aim and firing as he didn’t slow down.

Because of their size, it took time for the cannons to aim, which gave the Decepticons charging towards the building enough time to start firing at any of them that was exposed enough to destroy.  The one Deadheat had shot at exploded grandly, suggesting he’d managed to hit whatever artillery shell was already in it.

“Look at that!  Perfect shot, first try!” the dark-red mech whooped, pumping a fist in the air.  “I call that opening, I made it!” he yelled at the others, transforming into his vehicle mode, a race car, just as one of the cannons managed to finally take aim.  He hit his turbo and burst forward in time for its ammunition to miss him.  The other three jumped out of the way as well, shielding their optics from the debris flying everywhere.

Dirt.  Deadlock hadn’t noticed, but there wasn’t any metal or concrete outside of the giant walls protecting the military compound.  They didn’t pave any sort of road.  Why wouldn’t they?  It would make things far easier.

“Yo, Deadlock!” Carnivac punched him in the shoulder as they approached the building.  Things were turning into chaos behind them as soldiers took refuge behind the humongous trees and tried to take out the artillery cannons on the wall before them.  There had to be a few dozen of the cannons firing on their forces, keeping all but the brave few from rushing in to join them.  Several other Decepticons, all of them tanks, were firing on the metal door at the front.  Even if they couldn’t take it down, it would hopefully distract the army within the walls enough to make getting in through the wreckage of their cannons easier.  “You with us?  You seem distracted!”

“I’m good,” the younger mech assured him with a nod.

“Good, we’ll need you to have our backs in case-“

The purple and gold mech was cut off by Deadheat screaming.  They turned quickly to see him fall – no, be _launched_ – out of the opening he’d made shooting the cannon.  He landed hard on the dirt between them, groaning.  There was a hole in his chestplate.

“Oh, slag!” Carnivac knelt down next to him.  “Deadheat, you alright?!”

The dark red mech’s vents backfired a couple times before he onlined an optic.  “I’m good… missed my spark, spawn of a glitch… he was waiting for me, though… be careful…”

“What the Pit kind of weapon did this?!”

“They got some kinda… robotic armor or something,” Deadheat sat up with difficulty.  “Makes ‘em about as big as us.  Hit as hard now, too.”

“They _have_ been preparing for this,” Deadlock growled, shooting a shell heading their way.  It exploded in the air and showered them with red-hot debris.  “Carnivac, can you help him get to cover?”

“Yeah, I’ll join you soon as I do.  Where’s Astraea?” Carnivac asked.

“You know her.  Always second to the fight next to me,” Deadheat laughed as Carnivac helped him up.  “She’s probably in there already, tearin’ things up now that she doesn’t have competition.  I wouldn’t’ve gotten knocked out of that fight if they didn’t get the drop on me.”

Carnivac started walking him to the trees while Deadlock covered them, rolling his optics.  “Sure, whatever you say, Deadhead.”

As soon as they were safely in the forest Deadlock charged.  Without heavy backup he and Astraea would have to watch each other’s backs.  He transformed into his car mode and drove straight at the wall, dodging around explosions and Decepticons.  When he was close enough he transformed back into his robot mode, grasping the indentations made in the wall from the current and previous battle damages.

Something else that didn’t seem right was now in front of his faceplate.  The older damages on the wall weren’t from enemy artillery.  They were slash-marks.  _Claw_ marks.

Deadlock shook it out of his helm and kept climbing.  He had to back Astraea up.

When he made it to the hole the destroyed cannon had made, he found the dark blue femme was doing perfectly fine on her own.  She was fighting two giant mechanical beings.  They weren’t Cybertronians, too awkward and clunky.  They were so heavily armored they had trouble keeping up with Astraea’s swift dodges and blows.  Deadlock began wondering how Deadheat of all mechs managed to let one of these get the drop on him.

The young mech pulled himself through the opening and charged, pulling out his blaster.  While they were distracted by her he took aim and blasted the arm off the one on her right.  The mechanical armor stumbled but only faltered for a moment.  Unlike Cybertronians, since these were just armor and not actual living beings, they didn’t feel pain when losing a limb like that.  Pit, they didn’t even have a _head_ to blow off.  The cockpit of the robotic armor was likely in the midsection.

“Nice shooting, kid, but next time aim for the squishy center!” Astraea yelled.  She emphasized her point by pulling out a sticky mine and attaching it to the front of the other one.  She then kicked it away from her and turned to shield herself from the explosion.  The explosion only took out the front of the torso, but it was all that was needed.  The metal had exploded inward leaving a gooey red mess where the organic being piloting it used to be.

“Message received!” Deadlock replied.  Despite his annoyance at Deadheat and Carnivac’s grandstanding he didn’t like being outdone once he was on the battlefield.  He still loved every feeling of the kill.  It was a rush that had long since replaced the softgrades he’d given up.  Like the softgrades, though, the problem was when the killing was over.  The high went away and he was left feeling empty again.

In order to outdo her with style, Deadlock rushed in while grabbing a piece of metal that had been dislodged from somewhere in the cannon.  It was long and sharp, like a sword.  He dodged bullets, internally scolding the Dabolans for not getting with the times and upgrading to laser weapons.  Bullets would have far less effect on their New Kaonian armor plating, meaning they’d have to aim for the weakest spots to even do any damage.  He ducked under the desperate swing of the suit’s remaining arm, shoving his makeshift sword up and into the armor’s torso.  The machine ceased function, not because he hit anything critical in its circuits.  Rather because of the satisfying red coating his imperfect blade had as he pulled it from the armor.

“Nice,” was all Astraea said, smirking.  “I’m heading on in.  You coming?”

“I’m going to wait for Carnivac,” Deadlock answered, wiping the excess blood off his sword on the edge of the armor he’d taken down.  “You go have fun, we’ll catch up.  You seem like you’re doing fine without me.”

“Slaggin’ right I am,” Astraea chuckled darkly.  She blasted a hole through the wall leading into the main facility and ran through.

Deadlock looked around the room he was in.  It looked like it was made exclusively for the purpose of housing the cannon along with its operators, the two dead Dabolans in their bastardized robotic armor.  It was an insult to mechanical beings that organics tried to recreate their larger, sturdier bodies instead of improving their own feeble flesh.  The sight of them made him sick, and Deadlock kicked the one closest to him and headed over to the opening that lead outside to await Carnivac.  As much as he didn’t like the other mech, they were a team on this mission.  That meant they watched out for each other.

Down on the battlefield the soldiers were now fighting more of those mechanical abominations they called armor.  The mobile armors must have joined the battle while he was up there.  It was about time they stopped being cowards and fought in person, even if it was in those flawed and clunky armors.  He scanned the field, looking for Carnivac.  The mech was halfway across it, taking on one of the armors.  He looked to be doing fine, but Deadlock didn’t want to wait.  He took aim waiting for a moment where they weren’t moving so much so he could take a shot.  While he looked for the opening, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention, though.  He lowered the rifle, optics widening as he went slack jawed.

There was a huge path of broken trees to the left of the facility.  The trees they couldn’t even _blast_ down.  And it definitely hadn’t been there on the surveillance footage.  This meant whatever made that was here _recently_.

“Hey, Carnivac?” Deadlock opened his commlink to the other Decepticon.  They didn’t typically do this on the job, as it could be distracting in the middle of battle.

“A little busy here, Deadlock!” was the response.

“I know.  I’ve been waiting to take a shot at him.”

“Then why don’t you while I’m holding him?”

Deadlock looked back down and noticed Carnivac had the armor locked into place.  They were in a contest of strength.  “Right, sorry.  Hold him where you’ve got him.”

“What do you think I’m doing?!”

The younger mech took aim.  He fired at a tank on the back, not sure what it did but it definitely looked important.  It exploded and unbalanced the armor, allowing Carnivac to get the upper edge and flip the suit over.  It landed on its back.  Carnivac slammed a pede down on its front, holding it still while he fired several shots into the cockpit.  The armor went immobile and it was apparent he managed to hit the pilot.

“Thanks.  Now, what did you want?” the purple and gold mech commed back now that he was free to continue across the field.  He occasionally took shots at other armors, helping his fellow Decepticons, but would sometimes miss and hit his allies instead.  This was why Deadlock didn’t like him.  He acted without thought of consequences for his allies when in the heat of battle.  He was too proficient of a warrior not to keep him around, though.

“I just had a thought.”

“In the middle of battle?  Not the time to try something new, Deadlock.”

“Haha.  Very funny.  Look, I’ve been putting pieces together and… what if whatever they’re militarized for isn’t each other?  Or even us?” Deadlock suggested, looking back to the wreckage of the forest.

“Would that make a difference?  Doesn’t matter what they’re fighting, cause it’s us right now.”

“It _does_ matter, though.  Because from what I’ve been able to piece together whatever they’ve been fighting is big.  Like _really big_.  Supreme Unit big.”

“Deadlock, we’ve been keeping an optic on this planet for centuries,” Carnivac said, grunting as he started climbing the wall.  “If there was something like that here we’d have seen it.”

“I know, but…”

“But nothing.  Stop getting distracted.  You know better, and Turmoil will go viral if he finds out you’re slacking off.  You’re his pet project, you know.”

Deadlock ground his dentae.  “Don’t call me that.”  He hated that the others in Turmoil’s army called him things like the Cyberforming leader’s ‘pet.’  It was demeaning.

“What?  It’s true.  You’re his _favorite_.”  The Pretender stopped for a moment as he shut off his comm and hoisted himself up into the hole next to Deadlock.  In person he said, “You could murder us all and say it was an accident, and he’d probably believe you.  Sun shines out of your aft for all-”

“Stop, will you?” Deadlock snapped, cutting him off.  “Come on, we’ve got to meet up with Astraea.  She went on ahead.”

“Right, kill things first, make fun of you later,” Carnivac grinned, slapping his shoulderplate.  “Let’s go.”

“You’re hilarious…” Deadlock muttered, following as Carnivac led the way through the opening Astraea had made.

From there it was a flurry of carnage, lasers, bullets, and explosives.  They saw some of the other soldiers who had made it in, nodding to them before continuing their raid.  The military facility was oddly structured.  For as huge as it was, it almost felt like it was smaller on the inside.  Deadlock couldn’t think of any other reason why most of the important rooms were all near the front end where they’d attacked.  It seemed like an extremely ill thought out layout.

Then again, these were the idiot organics who put an easy to hit exploding target on the backs of their armored suits.

“I’m heading this way, I’ll meet up with you guys down the line!” Deadlock called to Carnivac and Astraea as he turned the opposite way of them.

“Keep a comm open!  I don’t like how little security is here!” Astraea replied.

“What are you, my creator?” Deadlock answered.  He ducked a purposefully misaimed laser blast, laughing.  Now that he was in the middle of the fighting he was forgetting his reservations.  His worries about a bigger enemy.  This was what he functioned for.

Astraea had been right, though.  There was far less security down here than the way they’d come.  This reeked of a-

Deadlock’s realization was cut off as something impacted him from his left.  Pain rushed through him as he was flung into the wall on the other side of the hall as if he weighed nothing.  He shook off the warning signs flashing in his HUD that something was damaged and stood up.  He turned to face his attacker and the air caught in his vents.  This armor was… _much_ bigger than the ones he’d been fighting throughout the compound.  He’d met Blackout once while visiting Chaar.  This thing had to be at least as large.  The larger it was, though, the slower.  It had simply took him by surprise, as the smaller ones had with Deadheat.

“I knew you mechanical abominations would come for us eventually!” a voice projected from inside the armor.  It was deep and smooth.  Reminded him of the video files he was given of their Lord Megatron, only not quite as commanding.  “Always told them that you would find an excuse to attack us!”

“You’re one to talk about abominations,” Deadlock scoffed.  “You used us as a template for those… _things_ you wear when you wage war!”

“War?” the Dabolan inside replied.  “We are not like you, we don’t want to fight!”  The armor rushed forward, far faster than the other armors he’d fought.  It caught Deadlock off-guard again, and he had to raise his arms to protect his faceplate against the fist coming at him.  It impacted his arms and launched him through the wall this time.  “All we wish to do is protect ourselves from threats like you and the Shroud!”

“The Shroud?” Deadlock’s vents backfired as he pushed himself out of the rubble.  He looked around.  His blaster was nowhere to be seen.  Likely buried now.  He didn’t have time to dig it out.  To his left was the makeshift sword he’d taken a liking to.  He picked it up and held it before him.  He had no training in swordsmanship, but it was the only weapon he had.  “Is that what made those marks?  What tore apart the forest?”

“Yes.  We’ve been fighting it for millennia.  Built our cities in these walls to keep our people safe from it, built weapons bigger and bigger to drive it off.”

“That’s natural selection, isn’t it?  You’re smaller, weaker.  You don’t deserve a planet you can’t even protect from one creature,” Deadlock sneered, edging his way backwards while carefully avoiding tripping over the rubble.  If he could put enough distance between him and this Dabolan he could take cover until the others could get there.  He was desperately sending a distress signal, hoping someone would respond.  He didn’t want to alert the Dabolan that he was calling for backup.  If the pilot of that ridiculously large armor was overconfident he would make a mistake and the others could get the drop on _him_ this time.

“What do you know about natural selection?!” the pilot, enraged, charged again.  This time he fired with the guns on the armor’s left arm while he did.  They were still metal bullets, but there was a lot more of them coming from the Gatling gun type weapon and at a much faster rate.  It was more likely to hit something that would actually damage Deadlock if he didn’t get some cover quick.  “There’s nothing natural about you!  Living machines!  The All-Knowing are probably sickened by your very existence!”

Deadlock dashed through a nearby door, ducking behind it and covering his helm and neck from the spray of bullets.  One lodged into the armor of his arm and he hissed simultaneously at how hot it felt and how close that had been to penetrating the exposed protomesh of his neck.  The organic’s words bounced around in his helm as if they had been a bullet penetrating that as well, enraging him even more.  “I don’t know anything about any All-knowing, but I’m sure Primus will be glad to have you pieces of slag wiped out of this universe!” he shouted back, looking around for anything else he could use for cover.  He was in the factory for the mobile armors the Dabolans were using.  He saw incomplete ones sitting around the currently inactive facility.  Machinery was set up to build them, giving him an idea.

The mech made a break for one of the control panels as he heard the mobile armor enter after him, every sound of its massive form clanking and moving amplified and echoing throughout the factory.

“You can speak all you want of your False God, but he can’t help you here!  The All-Knowing gave us the knowledge and technology to protect ourselves from that which threatens our lives!” the Dabolan shouted as he approached Deadlock at the panel.

“I bet your All-Knowing didn’t tell you about this!” Deadlock returned as he grabbed a lever and started pushing buttons.  In kliks the assembly line lit up.  He ignored the belts carrying the armor pieces together, favoring the clawed arms hanging from the ceiling.  He manipulated one to strike out and grab the Gatling arm on the Dabolan’s mobile armor.

“What are you doing?!  Release my armor and fight fair, you coward!” the Dabolan demanded.

“Coward?  Funny, that’s exactly what I think of people who hide in bulky mobile suits instead of fighting mech-to-mech,” Deadlock said, manipulating another lever.  This one brought down a white-hot torch.  He used it to burn through the metal, wires, and circuitry on the suit’s arm, severing it from the robotic armor.

The armor stumbled a bit, having been pulling while Deadlock worked.  It regained its balance impressively, though, suggesting that the person in there was someone with vast experience with the armor.  “You think that will stop me?!” he barked, rushing forward.

“No, but this should!” Deadlock grinned as he brought the torch in front of the charging armor and watched the joint of its leg hiss as it began burning.

“Not so fast!”  The armor’s remaining arm grabbed the torch and yanked it out of the ceiling.  He threw it at Deadlock, who was forced to dive out of the way.  The severed tool crashed into the panel, destroying it.  At the same time it blindsided Deadlock, whose vision crackled and blacked out for a few moments from the impact to his helm.  The armor limped over, part of the circuitry in its leg having been successfully severed.  “I have to admit, I’m impressed.  I didn’t think this armor would have this much trouble against one of you mechanical freaks,” the Dabolan said as he reached for Deadlock’s form.  “My name is General Tarok.  You should at least know the name of the Dabolan who shuts you down permanently.”

Deadlock’s senses came back online as he was being lifted by the armor.  He quickly grasped his makeshift blade, swiping down and severing more of the wires and circuits controlling the leg he’d torched.  The armor strained now that it didn’t have any control over one of its legs and he swiped again before Tarok could register what was happening and recover.  That finally severed the rest of the leg and the armor tipped backwards, now completely unbalanced.  Deadlock braced himself for the impact, still gripped in the armor’s massive hand.  He landed heavily on the torso of the armor, forcing himself to sit up.  His HUD was now flashing with warnings everywhere.  The torch to his helm was causing problems.  He was still suffering damage, likely internal, from both impacts he’d taken when they’d first started fighting.  He still had to finish this.  Tarok wouldn’t be finished once he regained his bearings, either.

So Deadlock raised his blade, ready to impale the armored torso as he did with the first one of these he fought.  “Seems only fair you know the designation of the mech about to kill you, then.  I’m Deadlock.”  He brought the blade down, but was interrupted by the remaining arm suddenly pinning him to the armor.  He struggled to get free but it was too strong and his body was too damaged.

“If I’m gonna go, you’re coming with me, robot,” Tarok growled.

The next thing Deadlock saw was the wall once again rushing at him.  _‘This thing has rocket boosters,’_ he thought right before they impacted.  _‘Of course it does.’_

The armor and its two passengers were driven through the wall and into the air.  They free-fell for what seemed like an eternity, though it had to only have been a few kliks.  They landed hard on concrete, leaving a small crater.

This was the point where Deadlock manually shut down the warnings on his HUD.  He knew he was badly damaged and needed immediate repairs.  He didn’t need to be blinded by the information.  He pried himself from the wreckage of the suit, still clutching the blade.  He didn’t know where he was or who was an enemy.

The sounds of screaming pierced his audial receptors and he grabbed his helm in pain.  “Shut up!” he yelled back, swinging for the closest source.

“Please, no!”

He stopped at the sound.  That didn’t sound like the desperate last pleas of a military man.  He forced his optics to focus, looking to where his sword had halted.

There was an organic creature inches from the blade, hunched over.  They’d been right about the size of the Dabolans, because if it were standing it would probably be about half his size.  It had long ears and brown fur, making him think of an organic turbofox.  When death didn’t strike them, the Dabolan turned and stared at him with huge green eyes.

Deadlock moved the sword, taken off guard for the second time.  This time, though, what he wasn’t prepared for was the revelation of where he was and what he was about to strike down.

The Dabolan straightened and revealed they were curled protectively around a much smaller version of them.  Their youngling.

He’d almost killed a youngling.

This wasn’t something he was prepared for.  Deadlock killed plenty of organics to prepare for Cyberformation.  He lost count of them in the hundreds.  But they were all military.  Army.  Soldiers and warriors.

These were civilians.  _Innocents_.

He’d never encountered them on his missions, not that he knew of.  Sure, he knew they were killed with the Cyberforming, if not by his fellow Decepticons while they prepared for it.  But he never… he never had to look at them before.  Come face to face with one.

Deadlock looked around and realized they were in a city square.  He hadn’t processed the words Tarok had told him before, as enraged and focused on survival as he was.  _‘We built these walls to protect our cities.’_   The reason the military structure was so crammed up into the front of the building was because that was all of it that _was_ military.  Everything else was civilians.  He was looking at dozens of them, all small and furry and wide-eyed.  All shaking and cowering in doorways and windows, or out in the open where they could see him more clearly.

And they were all _afraid_.

The black and white mech had never felt a rush leave him so fast than looking at them.

“Get away from them!”

He turned and watched the hatch at the front of the mobile armor open, Tarok clawing his way out and tumbling to the ground.  He wore a military uniform, but he looked just like them.  His fur was lighter, losing its color with age, and he was scarred across his face in several places.  But he was just as small and helpless without his armor.  It wasn’t like with Cybertronians and New Kaonians, where telling the military models from the civilians was usually pretty obvious.  If someone was armored thick enough to stop a cannon blast, they were military.  If they didn’t wear much armor and no weapons, they were civilians.

No wonder the Dabolans needed the armor.

“I won’t… I won’t let you hurt my people!” Tarok yelled, forcing himself up and limping to put himself between Deadlock and the… woman?  And her youngling.  He pulled out a gun, and if he wasn’t so shocked and horrified at the moment Deadlock would laugh at the idea that any bullet from something so small could hurt him.  Tarok’s other arm was hanging as uselessly at his side as the armor’s missing one, likely completely broken at this point.

“Oh, Primus…” Deadlock dropped the blade he held and felt his entire frame go heavy as all of the fight left him.  “What… what am I doing…?”

At his reaction, Tarok’s gun wavered.  His wide, green eyes narrowed as if expecting a trap to be sprung over this.  “What’s the matter, monster?  Can’t finish the job now that you’re facing me?”  It almost sounded comical that the deep, smooth voice he heard was coming from this small, furry creature.

“I… I don’t… I didn’t…”  Deadlock seemed to lose the ability to articulate how conflicted he suddenly was.  He knew civilians died in these missions.  He never had to _look_ at them before, though.

The people were still afraid around him, but confusion was working their way into their faces as well.  They were likely expecting him to attack by now, wipe them all out.  Not for him to freeze up in the face of fifty helpless civilians.

Apparently they weren’t the only ones confused now, because from above him he heard Carnivac’s vocals.  “What’re you doing, Deadlock?!”  The purple and gold Pretender was falling towards them, having leapt out of the hole they left in the factory wall above.  He landed with a huge crash, standing straight.  Unlike Deadlock, he looked both intact and still very bloodthirsty.

The civilians began screaming again, scattering quickly this time.  Apparently the sight of a Decepticon that didn’t look like he’d been through a grinder was enough to make them realize they should get the Pit out of there this time.

“Carnivac!” Deadlock found his vocals, looking from him, to the destroyed armor, to Tarok still standing between them and the woman and her youngling.  There was no direction they could run from where they were that would be safe.

“Sorry I’m late.  Had a Pit of a time finding you.  Astraea’s heading back outside, some kind of commotion.”  Carnivac looked Deadlock up and down.  “Primus, mech, how are you still standing?  No wonder you’re not killing things right now.”

“Get out of our city, metal scum!” Tarok shouted, turning his gun on the new threat.

“Oooh, a little organic with a tinier gun, I’m so scared,” Carnivac mocked, making a show of shivering in faux-despair.  “Come on, take a shot.  I’ll give you a freebee.”

“Carnivac, don’t…!  Tarok, please, listen to me!” Deadlock’s focus was split between them.  He knew as soon as Tarok took the shot Carnivac would kill him and the two innocents.  He would also kill them without it.  He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.  This was their job, why did he care so much?

“Don’t what?  What’s wrong with you, Deadlock?  You damage your processor?  Judging by that dent in your helm, I’m gonna guess you did,” Carnivac said, raising an optic ridge.

“Just _listen_ to me!  I don’t… this isn’t _right_!” Deadlock finally said desperately.

“Not _right_?” Carnivac echoed incredulously.  “You really _did_ damage your processor!  You’re trying to stop me from wiping out a bunch of dirty organics!”

“They’re civilians!” the younger mech pleaded.

“And those civilians would let you offline in a sparkpulse!” the other mech snarled, stepping forward.

Deadlock forced himself forward, picking up his blade.  Tarok turned his gun on him, but his face turned surprised when Deadlock put himself between them and Carnivac, raising his makeshift sword against his comrade.  “This.  Isn’t.  Right.”

Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he was so adamant about this, either.  Carnivac was right, these people were so afraid of him they would have offlined him without a second thought.  But they had _reason_ to be afraid.  The Decepticons attacked without a reason other than ‘we hate organics.’

Primus, it was no wonder the universe hated them.

“I don’t believe this,” Carnivac said, not even raising his blaster.  “You’re gonna defend _these_ guys?  How many organics like them do you think we’ve reduced to smears?”

“I know, I just…” Deadlock glanced behind him at the shocked and frightened faces of the two innocents, and the surprised one of Tarok.

“Your metal… whatever you’ve been using is _covered_ in their gross organic matter!”

“I know!”

“You’ve _never_ cared before!”

“I _know_!” Deadlock struggled to find a way to explain this.  A way that Carnivac would understand.  But he was distressed to realize there _was_ no way Carnivac could understand.  He was one of the ones who taught Deadlock that all organics were evil and needed to be purged from the universe.  He probably didn’t even question it any more than Deadlock had until this moment.

But Carnivac had killed civilians without trouble.  He was trying to do that now.

“Fine, you’re obviously just damaged and under energized from how bad this guy kicked the slag out of you.  So I’m just gonna…”  Without any kind of warning, Carnivac stepped forward and smashed the butt of his laser rifle against the unsuspecting Deadlock’s helm.  It was the same place as the torch, which caused his vision to black out again.  He crumpled to the ground, holding his helm and hissing.  He stayed mostly conscious this time, and could hear gunshots and screaming.

“No… no…”  Deadlock forced his vision and limbs to work, ignoring the sensation of his systems trying to shut him down so they could preserve whatever functions he still had intact.  His vision was still static, so he swung blindly behind him, where he knew Carnivac had to be attacking Tarok and the woman and youngling.

He hit something with the sword, and it became lodged in it.  Another scream.  The gunshots stopped.  Did he miss?  Was he too late?

He reset his optics several times until they finally began to clear.

The first thing Deadlock saw was Carnivac looking over his shoulder in shock and anger.  He looked down and saw that he didn’t just make his mark.  He hit the bullseye.  The glow of the Pretender’s spark could be seen around the makeshift sword sticking out of his back.  Deadlock stumbled as he tried to keep himself from shutting down, staring in shock as he pulled the sword out, spark energy escaping behind it.  Carnivac tipped forward, but Deadlock caught him before he could land on the organics he’d been protecting and pulled him to land on his side instead.  He watched energon, oil, and spark energy all leak out, the former two pooling under his ally’s chassis as the metal’s bright colors faded to gray.

“I… I…” Deadlock looked from the body to his sword, which was now layered in both blood and energon.  He threw it to the side, backing away from the scene as if it could undo what he’d just done.  As much as he disliked Carnivac, he didn’t want him _offline_.

“You… protected us?” Tarok finally spoke.  “After we tried to kill each other?  After everything we said to each other?”

Deadlock wasn’t paying attention.  His processor was screaming a million different things at him.  He just offlined one of his allies.  Turmoil was going to make sure he was next.  He protected these people.  They deserved to be protected.  They were innocent.  But they didn’t like him.  Why did he choose them over Carnivac?  Carnivac was his ally.  He offlined him.  He offlined him.  Oh, Primus, what did he do?  Why did he do that?

He collapsed to his knees and held his helm as he tried to process everything happening to him.  “No… no… no…”  He wanted to be somewhere other than this.  He wanted to disappear.  He wanted to forget.  He wanted to forget everything.  He wanted to pretend this wasn’t real.  He wanted this to _not_ be real.  He wanted… he wanted his softgrades.  He wanted to lose himself in them again.  He wanted to wake up in the Dead End and find out all of this was a hallucination.  He was never kicked out.  He didn’t kill those mechs.  He didn’t get picked up by Turmoil.  He didn’t go around helping wipe out millions of organics.  He didn’t attack this planet.  He didn’t fight Tarok, who just wanted to protect his people.  He didn’t almost kill an innocent youngling.  He didn’t kill Carnivac.  He couldn’t have.  He wanted his softgrades.  He wanted his softgrades.  He _wanted his_ -

“Thank you.”

Deadlock was brought out of his inner struggle by the feeling of a furry hand on his shoulderplate.

The woman, now at eye level with him kneeling on the ground, was standing before him.  Her emerald, animal-like eyes didn’t reflect fear anymore.  It was relief and gratitude.  “Thank you so much for protecting me and my child.”

“I…” Deadlock tried to speak and failed again.  He looked from her to Carnivac’s grey corpse.

“I’m sorry you had to kill a comrade,” Tarok added, looking away from him.  “But you saved innocent life.  I know it’s nothing if your other allies manage to get into the city, but…”

“Sir!” another Dabolan soldier, one much younger and wearing a uniform less detailed than Tarok’s was running towards them.  He stopped when he saw the destroyed armor, the dead Decepticon, and another greatly damaged one being comforted by a woman.  He seemed ready to ask what happened, but then shook his head.  He saluted.  “General Tarok, we have a bigger problem than the Decepticons!”

“What could be bigger than this?” Tarok asked in exasperation.

“The Shroud, sir, it’s-!”

Before the soldier could finish, the entire city shook.  People screamed and ran away from the walls protecting it.  A sound unlike anything Deadlock had ever heard in his lifecycle, like the screeching of metal mixed with the roar of an engine, resounded.  The city shook again.

“It’s here, isn’t it?” Deadlock finally found his voice, standing up.

His answer came in the form of a large section of the wall on the side they’d been attacking crumbling.  Towering over the city was a great beast.  Its scales were a dark, deep blue.  Its eyes a red deeper than magma.  Jaws lined with rows of razor-sharp fangs, its massive three-digit hands tipped with claws like talons.  From its teeth hung the remains of both Dabolan armored suits and Decepticon soldiers.  It roared again, the sound making Deadlock grab his pounding helm again in agony.

“The Shroud,” Tarok said, sounding almost defeated by its appearance.  “It finally penetrated the walls.”  He looked to Deadlock as the mech tried to force the pain away.  “I hope you have at least a bit of fight left in you.  Because if we’re going to survive this and protect my people again, we have to do the impossible.  We have to finally defeat the Shroud.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift's story continues as Deadlock and the remains of his team must work together with the Dabolans to defeat the Shroud. As badly damaged as he is, though, Deadlock can only do so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some non-descriptive gore in this. Well, non-descriptive except one scene involving the Shroud. But I figured monster-gore was okay for the same reason they seem to think robot-gore isn't a big deal at times. Anyway, I apologize if this makes you uncomfortable or disturbed.

“Astraea!  Answer me, where are you?” Deadlock called over his commlink, dragging himself across the city.  He couldn’t believe he was heading towards the gigantic monster attacking it, but this was one of those solars where everything went sideways.

 _“Deadlock, thank Primus!  Can you see the giant monster from where you are?”_ Astraea responded.

The younger mech looked up, where the head of it was directly above him.  He felt his fuel tank turn at the idea of any of that… whatever it was dripping from his jaws landing near him.  “Yeah, I’m… pretty close to it.”

_“Great, I’m on top of it.”_

“What?!”

 _“I’m on top of the giant monster.  I’ve been planting mines all over this thing but it’s not…”_ the femme grunted and there was the sound of an explosion.

From where he was, Deadlock could see the explosion (as dwarfed as it looked on the massive creature) and smoke coming from it at the base of its neck.  “Yeah, I saw that one.”

 _“This fragging thing doesn’t have any weak points I can find in its scales.  It’s like a living fortress.  Only more securely armored.  Lasers do nothing.  The Dabolans’ cannons do nothing.  My mines and grenades do nothing.  What the frag is this thing made of?”_ Astraea said in frustration.

“Lunar terrors and the fluids of its victims, apparently,” Deadlock joked.  He had to, because humor was the only way to prevent the terror of standing under the Shroud as it reached down with its massive talons and crushed entire buildings from taking control of him.

 _“Where are you?”_ Astraea asked.

“Inside the city.  Look over the side of your new best friend and tell me if you can see a…” Deadlock looked around him and spotted a large tower, “…bell tower.  It’s white and blue with a giant statue of an eye at the top.”

 _“Give me a klik,”_ Astraea answered.  After a few moments she said _, “Yeah, I see it.  Creepy statue.”_

“I’m waving, can you see me?” Deadlock did as he said, waving an arm in an arc.  He felt his joints protest and pain shoot through his spinal strut.  “Primus, that was a bad idea…”

_“It’s okay, I saw it.  What happened to you?  That sounded like it hurt.”_

“Got in a fight with a Dabolan general with a mobile armor five times bigger than the other ones.  We both came out looking like scrap.”

_“Wait, he’s **alive**?”_

“And he’s going to stay that way because he’s the only person I can talk to who’s been fighting the Shroud long enough to know what to do,” Deadlock snapped, continuing to drag himself.  “He gave me a communication device to keep each other on the inside of any plan we come up with.”

There was a pause, which he was expecting.  Astraea wasn’t going to take the idea of working with the organics any better than Carnivac had taken him protecting them.  _“You’re trusting an organic?”_ she finally said.

“Do you want to take that thing down or not?” Deadlock retorted.

_“Deadlock… where’s Carnivac?  He was responding to your distress signal last I saw him.”_

Deadlock cringed.  He knew this was coming.  “He’s… offline.”

_“What?!  What happened?!”_

“It’s… not important right now.  We need to concentrate on the giant monster trying to kill us all,” Deadlock said.  He knew it was lame, but he also knew Astraea would take it for now.  Because she would want to concentrate on the monster as well.

 _“Right.  Monster.  Do we have any kind of plan yet?  Can you even fight in the condition you’re in?”_ the blue-armored femme asked.

“I’m not planning on fighting.  We have the barebones outline of a plan, but we need to know where everyone is.  How many soldiers do we still have on our side?”

_“Deadheat and I are still here.  He rejoined the fight after the field medics patched up the hole in his chestplate.  He’s probably down there nipping at this thing’s ankles, trying to get it to at least flinch.  Otherwise we probably have about twenty ‘bots still left.”_

“Only twenty?  Was it this thing or the Dabolans?” Deadlock felt the need to ask.

 _“We lost only a few to their armors.  They’re not the best designed, so it took them getting some really lucky shots.  Then this baby showed up and started attacking anything that moved.  Gotta admit, the Dabolans were pretty brave if stupid.  They rushed right in to try and keep it out of the city.  If they fought half as hard against us as they did this thing they might’ve been a better challenge.  Whoa!”_ Astraea yelped as the Shroud suddenly started moving, one of its arms raising and clawing at the back of its neck _.  “Scrap, I think it finally figured out I’m here.  I’ve gotta move.  The good news about all this armor is it can’t feel me up here, so I think it just hears me.  Means I have to keep conversation to a minimum.  I’ll let you know if I figure anything out up here.”_

“Roger, keep me posted,” Deadlock ended the communication and leaned against a wall.  He vented deeply, trying to keep himself steady.  He definitely had internal damage.  Nothing too bad, obviously, as he was still functioning after this time.  It would build into a bigger problem the longer he went without repairs, though he had no choice at the moment.

The smaller, furry Dabolans were dashing past him still.  Rescue workers were digging people out of the rubble of buildings and rushing them away to the other side of the city in their emergency vehicles.  All of the noise was making his processor hurt more, but he couldn’t shut his audial receptors off.  This was a situation where that would be a bad idea.

Primus, it was no wonder why these creatures hid in their closed-off cities with heavy artillery on the walls and giant robotic armors.  Every time this thing came around they had to lay enough firepower on it to make it decide they weren’t worth a nibble.  And then Turmoil’s crew had to come along and frag that up.  Weakened the walls, destroyed their turrets.  Dabolans were dying all around him, innocent people who just wanted to live without fear of being eaten by the giant creature above them.  And it was all their fault.

“Focus, Deadlock,” he said aloud to himself.  “You can feel regret for your lifecycle choices later.  Right now you need to get yourself together and fix this.”

As if it would forgive what he’d helped cause.

_“Come in, Deadlock.  Can you read me?”_

Deadlock picked up the communication device Tarok had given him and activated it.  Primitive, just like everything else here.  But it was what they had.  “Yeah, I’m here.  How’re you and your army getting everything together?”

 _“We’re getting anyone who knows how to pilot an armor in one.  Unfortunately we can’t make any more while we’re battling, since_ someone _destroyed the factory.”_

“As far as I remember that was a team effort between two stubborn, hateful idiots,” Deadlock felt the need to point out, pushing himself off the wall and continuing his trek.  “How many are we going to have?  Cause Astraea says we’ve only got about twenty of our people left.  Calling for help from the contingents attacking the other cities isn’t an option because it would take too long for them to get here.”

_“Yeah, same with backup from those cities anyway.  From what I’ve heard from our communication guys the other cities are getting their tails kicked anyway.  Your friends are efficient.”_

Deadlock cringed and vented.  “Look, I’m…”

_“I know.  Stop apologizing, you metal idiot.  I’m not going to forgive everything you and your monstrous army have done here, but if we can take down the Shroud and save at least a few people then… it’ll have to be enough.”_

“Right,” the black and white mech said, unsure what else he could.  He passed the crumbled remains of a general store, keeping an optic on the swinging claws.  It wasn’t going for its back anymore, so Astraea either lost it or was offlined.  He decided not to think of the latter option, as he couldn’t contact her to check up without risking it finding her again.  “So, how many?”

_“I’m gonna be able to get around seventy armors together and functioning.  If we can find a weak spot then we can concentrate fire on it.”_

Deadlock nodded, though Tarok couldn’t see it, then came to a realization.  “Wait… that’s why you use bullets and shells.  Physical ammunition.  Lasers bounce off of its scales, but bullets will at least leave an impact.”

 _“Sharp.  I know we can’t ask your metal friends out there to change up their ammo.  Most of them probably wouldn’t know what to do with a bullet if they saw one.  But the laser fire will work just as well if they can find a kink in the scales.”_   There was a pause as Tarok barked unrecognizable orders to some of his men.

When the grey-furred Dabolan was finished Deadlock said, “Astraea said she’s on top of the Shroud.  She’s been putting explosives all over it but can’t find a weak spot yet.”

_“Well, at least she’s trying.  Keep me updated on that.  Meanwhile, remember what I told you and keep to the plan.”_

“Roger.”

Deadlock put the device back in the compartment on his hip.  It took him a few more cycles to get where he was instructed.  The First Church of the All-Knowing.

From what Tarok told him the All-Knowing had been ‘higher beings’ that visited the Dabolans when they were still living in huts scattered across the planet, just hoping that the Shroud didn’t come to their village next.  They’d taken pity on the creatures of the village they visited, fighting off the Shroud with their Holy Weapons.  They then stuck around for decades, teaching and helping the Dabolans advance in their technology and civilization.  Taught them how to mine and refine metals, use it to build better weapons and sturdier walls.  How to make explosive powders.  Eventually even how harness energy to make machines and computers.  The Dabolans flocked to them, five of these divine creatures in all.  That was why there was five cities.  One for each of their All-Knowing Gods.  When they had advanced enough that they could drive off the Shroud on their own, the All-Knowing packed up and left.  Simply… said, ‘You’re welcome, good luck’ and left.  The Dabolans didn’t seem to understand how messed up that was.

They had left a present in the First Church of the All-Knowing, though.  That was the part that bothered Deadlock.  These people were obviously not gods.  They were more advanced alien species that came in and found no reason to tell the Dabolans that they weren’t divine or holy.  Sure, what they did had been a good thing.  The Dabolans likely wouldn’t have survived without the intervention.  But that was no reason to proclaim themselves gods and allow people to revere them as such.

Deadlock made his way into and through the church, observing his surroundings as he went.  There weren’t any pews, instead an open floor in front of a giant stone statue of the First All-Knowing, Yotan.  A giant, imposing stone figure stood holding a rifle.  That only furthered Deadlock’s opinion the Dabolans had been had.  What kind of god needed an automatic weapon?  Paintings stood behind it of the events he was told of involving their arrival.  The Shroud was a frightening figure even in an old painting, towering over the poor, tiny Dabolans.  It was then scared away by a holy light surrounding the five All-Knowing. 

A sound to his right made Deadlock jump, baring his make-shift sword.  There was another Dabolan there, though male or female he couldn’t tell.  They were kneeling on the floor, hands clasped together as they muttered a prayer to their con-artist gods.

Looking at them, so intent in their prayer that they didn’t notice the metal intruder, Deadlock didn’t have the heart to tell them their gods weren’t coming to save them a second time.  That they likely died hundreds of stellar cycles ago depending on the species.  Probably had a good laugh about the primitive civilization that thought they were gods.

Deadlock moved on before he overthought it and destroyed the statue before him.  He went through the door in the back of the room, having to duck and crouch through the halls.  It wasn’t comfortable with the state his chassis was in, but he didn’t have a choice.  He made his way carefully up the stairs of the church tower.  Had to make it to the top where their gift still remained.  Tarok said it was maintained after all these centuries, and Deadlock could only hope he was right.

When he arrived at the top he found the gift Yotan had left.

It was another turret, this one twice as big as the ones the Dabolans used.  Whatever species the All-Knowing had been, they were Cybertronian-sized at least.  He hoped their weapons lasted as long as well.

Deadlock slid into the seat of the turret, flipping switches to try and activate it.  The language the buttons were labeled with were in an alien language not uploaded into his database.  He could only hope it wasn’t _too_ different from Cybertronian technology.

After a few tries he heard a loud clunk and whirring sound, the turret rising.  The platform it was on rose it the last few feet as the roof of the tower opened up, revealing the scene still unfolding at the wall.  Well, not completely at the wall anymore.  The Shroud had managed to get one of its gigantic feet into the city.  It had crushed several houses in a residential area doing so.  Brave workers with their emergency vehicles still got as close as they could, getting injured and scared Dabolans out.  There were far more people in this city than it looked.

A computer screen in front of him showed where the turret cannon was aiming, and currently it was zoomed in on the Shroud’s huge, ugly face.  He flinched and pulled back a stick on the controls, successfully guessing that it was the zoom control on the sight.  He zoomed it out until he could see most of the beast before him on the screen.  Though he could just look over the turret and still see it just fine.

“Tarok,” Deadlock said, pulling the communicator out again.  “I’m in the turret and successfully activated it.  What’s the status on your army?”

_“We’re all suited up and on our way.  There was only three of the Mega Armors left, so I and a couple of my fellow vets took them.  We haven’t tried using them against the Shroud yet, but seeing how long it lasted against you that means it’ll at least do some damage before that thing flattens me.”_

“Don’t talk like that, Tarok.  I told you I’d help you protect this city, and I meant it.  That means having your back as well.  You may never forgive me for what we did, but hopefully this will get us a step towards at least helping Primus do so.”

_“Yeah, well, what’s to keep your Decepticon buddies from murdering us all after this is done anyway?”_

“You’re helping save them as much as we’re helping save you,” Deadlock assured him, though he was really not sure on that himself.  “That has to count towards sparing your people at least somewhat.”

 _“Right.”_   Tarok sounded as convinced as he was.  After a small pause he asked, _“Tell me, Deadlock.  You robot freaks got families?”_

“Some of us.  I don’t.  How about you?”

_“I have a grandson by my daughter.  I want to protect them, no matter what.”_

Deadlock didn’t know what to say.  Mostly because he wasn’t sure what a ‘grandson’ or a ‘daughter’ was.  He was sure he’d heard the terms on another planet somewhere.  Organics had very similar concepts of family and blood to each other, no matter how different the species.

_“I want you to promise me one thing, and then I’ll decide you’re not as bad as your fellow Decepticons out there once and for all.  Promise me that no matter what they decide you’ll fight to protect my people.  Not gonna be much use that you protected me and Jina and her daughter if you don’t follow through with the rest of my people.”_

“I…” Deadlock hesitated a moment, knowing this was dangerous business.  Promising to fight his comrades to protect what was left of the Dabolans.  Especially in the sorry state he was in.  But Tarok was right, it was useless to have even started if he wasn’t going to finish it.  “I promise.”

_“Good.  We’re heading out.  Remember to tell me if your lady-soldier finds a kink in the scales.”_

“Lady…?  You mean Astraea.  Right, I’ll let you know.”

As they signed off, Deadlock found the sounds of destruction and mayhem before him amplifying in the sudden radio silence.  This was it.  Decepticons and organics working together to save each other’s afts.  He never thought he’d be online to see the solar.

Waiting was like torture, but he didn’t have a choice.  Until he was given a signal there was nothing for him to do other than go over the controls and try to sort out what was what.  He let his processor wander to revelations he was given about the Shroud by Tarok.

It was called the Shroud because it had a particular special ability that explained why all of their monitoring of the planet never showed the Shroud on their images or radars.  It had a naturally occurring cloak that rendered it completely invisible during the lunar cycle.  That was when it usually came out to terrorize the planet’s populace.  Why it decided to show itself in the middle of the solar now was anyone’s guess, though it probably had something to do with all of the ruckus they were causing at the walls of the city.  It likely thought some other creature was butting into its territory.

_“Yo, ‘Lock, you there?”_

At the sound of Deadheat’s vocals, Deadlock answered his comm.  “Affirmative.  What’s up, Deadheat?”

_“Astraea checked in with me real quick.  Says you’re the go-to guy with the squishies.”_

“I’ve got communication with them, yes,” Deadlock confirmed, looking over the cannon to the Shroud.  It was chomping into a tall building it had managed to get close enough to with its massive, carnage-filled jaws.  The Decepticon decided not to think too hard about it and assume that the Dabolans had already evacuated it.  It made better than considering how many of them probably just got eaten.  “General Tarok, at least.  You need me to tell them something?”

_“This thing’s been shiftin’ its ugly foot a lot back here, I think it’s ready to finally get the rest of the way into the city.  Better tell our suddenly-best-friends that they should be movin’ all their hardware inside.”_

“Right, thanks, Deadheat.”

 _“No prob.”_ After a small pause in which Deadlock thought he’d already disconnected, the red and blue mech spoke up one more time.  _“It true Carnivac is gone?”_

Deadlock ex-vented.  He didn’t want to go through this again.  “Yes.  He’s offline.”

_“Slag.  Well, nothin’ doing about it now.  I think me and a couple’a the squishies almost got a few scales off this thing’s ankle, so we’re gonna keep chipping.  Keep us updated on the plan, a’ight?  You’re the only one who knows it.”_

“I know, I will.  Deadlock, out.”  The younger Decepticon disconnected and ex-vented again, this time in relief.  He’d expected to be asked about Carnivac again.  Deadheat wasn’t the kind of mech to dwell on such things, though.  He’d rather focus on the now, on what was in front of him.  And right now it was a ginormous monster trying to offline them all.  Speaking of, Deadlock called up Tarok again.  “Hey, General, I just got a comm from Deadheat down at the Shroud’s feet.  He said it’s about to take the final step into the city.  Move the mobile armors inside and start turning any turrets you have that direction.”

 _“That’s actually perfect.  I’m moving into position at the east end of the city with twenty of my men.  Use the sight, you should be able to see us on the wall,”_ the Dabolan general answered.

Deadlock turned the turret, zooming onto the part of the stone and metal wall that hadn’t crumbled.  Sure enough, one of the Mega Armors was making its way across with a small army of the smaller ones in formation behind it.  “I see you.  You’re getting in close, are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked.

_“Bullets may have better effect on this monster, but they still need to hit from a good close range.  It’s all physics and science and stuff I fall asleep during whenever those egg-heads at the labs start rattling off.”_

Deadlock actually chuckled a bit.  He knew what Tarok meant.  He wasn’t much for that science stuff, either.  “Alright, just watch yourselves.  Don’t need to lose anyone before we can start firing.”

_“Nice for you to care, metal-man.  Anything else you want to tell me while we’re sending men out?  This is your last chance.”_

“Deadheat said the scales on the Shroud’s right foot are giving way.  Send some of the men down there, concentrating fire where they’ve been working away at it will at least slow it down.”

_“Got it.  I’ll send the order.  Stand by, the plan may not be complete yet but we’ll have to start soon.  Can’t let that thing get far enough into the city that evacuation becomes pointless.  Tarok, out.”_

Deadlock put the communicator back and turned the turret around again.  He zoomed in on the creature’s head and searched for Astraea.  A flash of movement that blended in well with the Shroud caught his attention.  He focused and recognized the darting form of the femme.  Small explosions following in her wake, lighting up her frame with each one, became the best indicator of where she was.  She suddenly stumbled, dropping a couple of explosives and having to duck behind some scales to keep them from blowing herself up.  The reason for her losing her footing became obvious as the entire monster shifted.  It was lifting its foot, just as Deadheat said it would.

The black and white Decepticon moved the turret so he could focus on the huge appendage flexing up and over the sparse remainder of the wall under it.  When he zoomed in he could see Deadheat clinging onto the Shroud’s leg, much more noticeable with his contrasting color scheme against the dark blue scales than Astraea had been.  He and the three mobile armors with him were nearly dislodged as the foot came down heavily.  It sounded like an explosion, dust and debris spreading like an ominous cloud from beneath it.

Deadlock felt useless.  He wanted to help, but he couldn’t until he got the signal.  He understood why this was his job.  His fight with Tarok had left him far too damaged to be able to get out there and fight.  He’d get himself offlined in an instant.  At least from here he’d have an opportunity to strike when the time was right.

_“Deadlock, this is Astraea, do you copy?”_

“I hear you, Astraea, loud and clear.  What’s your status?” Deadlock asked.

_“Honestly?  Not too much better.  Whatever this monster is made of it seems impenetrable.”_

“According to ‘Heat, they’ve nearly gotten some of the scales off of the ankle.  Don’t give up, there’s obviously a way.”

_“Please, ‘Lock.  ‘Give up’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”_

“Right.  Sometimes I forget who I’m talking to,” Deadlock rolled his optics.  “I saw you on its head.  What do you think the odds of it noticing you if you get close to its optics?”

_“Eyes.  Organic creatures have eyes.  And let’s be honest, something this secure probably has something protecting those as well.”_

“Well, try anyway.  Tarok’s about ready to give the signal and something solid to concentrate fire on would be nice.”

_“Alright, alright.”_

Deadlock re-focused the turret’s sight on the Decepticon femme.  She dashed up the Shroud’s head, ceasing her persistent use of explosives.  She was trying to keep it from realizing what she was doing, and it seemed to be working.  The Shroud’s talons were too busy finding more victims.  It picked up an emergency vehicle and brought it up to its massive maw.  The panicked driver jumped out, falling to his death.  Perhaps it was a kinder fate than the Dabolans that hadn’t gotten out as the Shroud chomped into it.

The young Decepticon forced himself to keep watching Astraea instead of the horror show that was just displayed to him.  She pulled out four sticky-mines, fanning them between her servos as she approached the Shroud’s deep, crimson eye from above.  Letting out a battle-cry he could hear over the still-open comm, Astraea threw the mines directly onto the optical organ.  She landed on top of its snout, pressing a detonator and blowing them up.

The Shroud let out its terrifying, metal-screeching roar as half its face was engulfed in fire.  As it jerked to the side from the force of the explosion, Astraea stumbled and hung on for dear lifecycle.  A set of talons came up and swiped at her, this time hitting their mark as she tried to keep her balance.

“ASTRAEA!” Deadlock yelled in horror as he watched the femme fall from her unsteady perch.  He could hear her scream over his commlink and could only gaze helplessly at her falling form as it impacted the roof of a tower.  She bounced and rolled to the edge of the roof, grasping at the edge.  It stopped her descent, but the Shroud apparently decided that was the last straw from her as it turned its attention to her.

 _“Primus, that hurt… one of its claws got me… I think I’m okay, though…”_ she groaned out over the commlink.

“Not for long if you don’t get out of there!” Deadlock shouted desperately.  “It’s coming for you!”

_“Slag… alright, I’m getting down, but it’s not gonna be fast…”_

Sure enough, Astraea swung herself to the wall of the tower and began her descent, but her damage and survival instinct kept her from going too fast.

 _“Deadlock, what in the name of the All-Knowing was that?!”_ Tarok’s voice came over the other communicator.

Deadlock picked it up and spoke quickly.  “Astraea set some explosives on the Shroud’s optic… I mean eye!  She fell off and it’s going after her now!”

_“Well, at least it’s distracted now.  Did it work?”_

“Astraea’s in danger!” the young Decepticon snapped, unable to stop himself.

_“My entire **city** is in danger, you metal idiot!  Did that work?!  If we lay enough firepower on its eyes while it’s focused on her will it hurt it?!”_

Deadlock swallowed a bitter, hateful comment.  He had to focus on the task on hand, Tarok was right.  They’d deal with their prejudices later.  He turned the sight on his turret towards the Shroud’s face.  It took a few kliks with how much it was moving around, but he finally managed to get a look at the eye.  Well, what was left of it.  There was an oozing, dripping mess of organic tissue and fluid in the hole where the eye used to be.  Apparently it didn’t have as many defenses as Astraea thought it would.  “It worked.  She managed to take that thing’s eye clean out.  It’s blind on the side Deadheat and the armors with him are attacking its foot.”

_“That’s perfect.  I’ll have my men concentrate on its eye over here while it’s going after your teammate.  Tell your other friend on the ground to start pouring on the hurt to its ankle when my men do.  I’m sorry we have to use her as bait, but we only have one opportunity to take this thing down.  Once it realizes we’re a threat it’ll start slaughtering the rest of us and it’ll all be over.”_

“I… I understand,” Deadlock said, resigned.  “Deadlock out.”

 _“What was all that?  I heard I actually dented that thing’s head,”_ Astraea asked over their comm.

“You did.  We’re going to concentrate fire on the eyes while it’s going after you.”

_“Great, I’ve been reduced to bait.  I really hate this planet.”_

“I’m sorry, Astraea.”

 _“Shut up, ‘Lock.  Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like to win a war.  That’s how it works,”_ Astraea replied.  She didn’t sound bitter or resigned like he was.  She was completely ready to give her lifecycle to bring this creature down.  _“I’m gonna concentrate on not-offlining for a while.  Make sure you give this thing Pit when the time comes.”_

“Right.  Deadlock, out.”  As soon as he disconnected from her, Deadlock brought up Deadheat.  “Deadheat, can you hear me?”

_“Like you were next to me, ‘Lock.  What’s up?”_

“The Shroud’s going after Astraea.  The Dabolans are going to concentrate fire on its eyes and where you chipped out its scales on its foot on General Tarok’s signal.  You need to keep up with them.”

_“Wait, Astraea’s hurt?  And we’re usin’ her as bait?  What the Pit is going on out there?”_

Deadlock cringed.  “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s… it’s the plan.”

 _“This Tarok came up with it, didn’t he?”_ Deadheat spat the words out disdainfully.  _“Sure, when it’s one of us they’re all for letting us die for their precious planet.  If it was one of them I guarantee this wouldn’t even be considered.  This is bullscrap.”_

The black and white Decepticon went silent.  It was probably true.  But what could he do?

_“We can’t lose her, too.  We already lost a lot of bots, ‘Lock.  Pit, we even lost Carnivac.  We have to give her time to get out of there.”_

Deadlock stared at the screen that focused the sight of his turret as Astraea was forced to hang onto the side of the tower she was clinging to.  The Shroud swiped at the tower and took off the top part, the crumbling coming to a stop right before where she was.  If the structure hadn’t held she would be offline.

Deadheat was right.  This was wrong.  She didn’t deserve to offline for this plan.

“Leave it to me,” Deadlock assured Deadheat as he aimed the turret up.  “I can’t convince Tarok to change the plan.  But I can change it myself.”

_“Atta’ bot, Deadlock.  I’m out.”_

Deadlock ignored the comm going silent and concentrated.  There was only one thing he could do at this point.  It was true he wanted to help the Dabolans.  Make up for everything he caused, even if at the most molecular level.  But he didn’t want to sacrifice his teammates for this.  He sighted the turret towards the gory mess that used to be the Shroud’s left eye and pulled the trigger.

The reaction was immediate.  The Shroud reared itself back and roared in pain, shaking its head and turning from the gunfire.

 _“What do you think you’re doing, you overgrown rust-bucket?!”_ Tarok’s voice boomed through the communicator.  _“This wasn’t the plan!  We’re not going to have a clear shot if it comes towards you!”_

“I don’t care…” Deadlock muttered, though Tarok couldn’t hear him.  He didn’t bother picking up the communicator and activating it so the Dabolan general could.  He wasn’t going to justify himself.  Tarok wouldn’t sacrifice his family, and neither would Deadlock.

_“Dammit… we’re adjusting for this, but don’t think I’m not going to give you an earful… or whatever you have instead of ears!  When this is over, I’m gonna make sure you never forget the sound of my voice!”_

Deadlock couldn’t help but think that would be impossible anyway.  For only knowing each other for a couple hours, most of which they were trying to kill each other, Tarok left an impression on him.

Still, the Decepticon kept firing, adjusting the huge machine as best he could while laying on the gunfire.  It was difficult.  As well as the turret had been maintained it was still several centuries old.  Probably even older, actually.

The Shroud began moving towards him, its full attention now completely focused on the turret and the Decepticon controlling it.  It was terrifying having that city-sized monstrosity come towards him, but Deadlock kept his focus on trying to find its weak points.  Long, armored talons were brought up in front of its face keeping him from concentrating fire on its eyes anymore.  Otherwise there didn’t seem to be anything else that was vulnerable.

It seemed like an eternity, watching the fright that was the Shroud come closer and closer.  It didn’t slow down for any of the buildings in its way, simply going through them.  Deadlock started to become aware of the fact that the Dabolans hadn’t started to fire yet.  Was this the plan with Astraea?  Wait for it to offline her then fire while it was busy consuming her?  He tried not to think of the possibility that Tarok could be so sparkless.  Not after the guilt he made Deadlock feel for helping attack his people.

Another eternity and it was in front of him.  He couldn’t use the sight anymore because the Shroud was so close that the screen was filled with nothing but deep, midnight-blue.  This was it.  This was how he was going to offline.  Eaten by a giant organic monster as karma for all of the planets he’d helped wipe out.  Not the most dignified retribution.

_“FIRE!”_

Deadlock heard Tarok shout the single most beautiful word he’d ever heard and watched as the Shroud suddenly shrieked and took a step back.  It waved its talons around irritably as gunfire filled the air around it, concentrating on blinding it completely.  The hope was that it would eventually penetrate the eye sockets and reach its… brain?  That was what it was called on an organic, right?

The black and white Decepticon covered his audials as it roared again.  It was right in front of him, and that screeching sound was deafening even from a distance.  His vision began to give out as he tried to stay online in the face of it.  He onlined an optic and found that Tarok, his army, and the remaining Decepticons really did wait until the very last klik.  No wonder it was almost forcing him into stasis lock just hearing it.  The Shroud’s massive maw was directly in front of him.  He could see the remains of the Decepticons and Dabolans that had fallen victim to the monstrosity hanging about its fangs, causing his tanks to turn over at the sight.

Its mouth was open in front of him!

If there was anything Deadlock knew about any kind of creature with a mouth, it was that there was one thing that was incredibly detrimental to its health.  So he fought stasis lock one last time and reached for the controls.  He aimed into the back of the Shroud’s giant mouth and pulled the trigger.  A storm of bullets penetrated the back of the monster’s throat, causing it to stumble backwards once more.  Deadheat’s team must have been doing their job, as when it stepped with its left foot it buckled and fell to the ground.

As the Shroud’s form left his visual Deadlock gave himself a weak mental cheer.  He helped the Dabolans save their home from the creature that was terrorizing them for millennia.  As his body finally locked up and processor went blank and fuzzy he wondered if the small, furry populace would give him a statue, too.

Maybe he’d ask when he was repaired.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock's story comes to a close as he comes to the hardest decision he's ever had to make with the help of a former Decepticon war medic.

Deadlock came online slowly following the stasis lock his chassis and processor finally forced him into.  Everything hurt, especially his joints.  He reset his optics several times to clear the static from them, groaning as he sat up.

The first thing he noticed was that he was back on Turmoil’s ship.  More specifically, he was in the repair bay, wires attached to his open chestplate and the exposed port of his CPU in the back of his neck.  He felt a wave of nausea at the knowledge that something was plugged in where he used to download the softgrades into his systems.  He usually refused anyone to download anything into there, not even for repairs.  Turmoil knew this and honored it.  That meant the damage had to have extended there, likely because of the welder he took to the helm.

“Watch the exertion, Deadlock.  Recharge is best for you right now with how badly you were damaged.”

The black and white Decepticon looked to the vocal.  A sleek, red medic was leaning over a console nearby, tapping at the keys on it.  Wait, Deadlock knew that frame and voice.  “Knock Out?” he asked curiously, leaning towards him to get a better view.

“My reputation precedes me,” the medic turned and smirked, placing the servos of one hand on his hip.  “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”

“No, I just… I’ve seen you in some holovids a friend of mine has.  You were famous in the Great War,” Deadlock explained.  “I thought you left the Decepticons, though.  Why are you on our ship?”

“I was in the area when they sent out a distress call for any medics that could spare the time,” Knock Out answered, walking towards him.  He picked up a datapad at the end of the repair slab, poking through it.  “Since I have the most experience out of everyone that answered they sent me straight to you.  Anyone who was damaged as bad as or worse than you is offline.  Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t offline as well.  You shut off all of your emergency protocols, causing every system to be unable to respond to your injuries.  You couldn’t self-repair on even the smallest scale, though I suppose that doesn’t matter.  Nothing you had was minor.  Every joint was taxed to their limits.  Several internal components had to have emergency patch jobs.  I had to _replace_ a couple of them, and you’re lucky we had plenty of offline Decepticons to get those from.  You’ve been on my repair tables for just less than a decacycle.”

“A deca…?  Dabola!” Deadlock jerked forward, though he was halted by pulling wires and cords.  A few snapped out of their sockets, causing him to wince.  That wasn’t comfortable.

“Stop!” Knock Out rushed towards him and pushed him back down.  He got to work plugging him back into the machines that were monitoring and keeping his internals from shutting down.  “I told you I had to do patch jobs!  We won’t be able to finish the repairs until we get you back to New Kaon.  Until then, you have to _stay put_.  No getting up, no moving around.  You’re under repair room arrest, medic’s orders.”  He said the words testily, checking to make sure everything was properly connected before backing up again and ex-venting.

“What about Dabola, though?  What happened?” Deadlock asked, watching the gleaming medic.

The cherry-red mech crossed his arms over his chestplate, shrugging and rolling his optics.  “You’re asking the wrong mech, sweetspark.  Like I said, I only got here after all of that nonsense.  Last I saw they were moving the Cyberformation Sweepers in.”

“S-sweepers…?” Deadlock felt his spark flare at the news, optics widening.  “They… they cyberformed it?”

Knock Out raised an optic ridge and watched him curiously.  “The last I heard, but again, I’ve been stuck up here with you.  I know as much as you do.  Ask your friends when they come back around.  They’ve been visiting around this time every solar.  Bound to show up soon.”  He turned and returned to the console behind him.  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish this report for your repair records.  The Department of Repairs wouldn’t take kindly to me skipping their favorite part of keeping an iron grip on us: the bureaucracy.”  He sat down at the chair there this time, crossing one leg over the other and resuming his work.

Deadlock stared at the ceiling, processor reeling.  The Decepticons had gone through with their plan to cyberform Dabola.  If Knock Out had gotten there right after they’d gotten Deadlock to the repair bay, it meant that it couldn’t have been too long after the battle with the Shroud.  He saw the Sweepers going in when he arrived, which meant… oh, Primus…

The planet already had to be completely scrubbed of organic life by now.  They’d be in the process of cyberforming it as he lay there.  Despite having worked together to take down the monstrous creature attacking them his team wasted no time wiping out the Dabolans in the city.

That meant they were all gone.  Jina and her youngling.  Tarok, his daughter, and his grandson.  The soldiers, the civilians.  Everyone was… dead.

_“Promise me that no matter what they decide you’ll fight to protect my people.”_

Deadlock’s vents heaved as everything sunk in.  He _failed_.  He didn’t even get a chance to fulfill his promise.  Despite working towards protecting them, promising Tarok that he would at least try to fight for them, he couldn’t do anything.  They were all wiped out while he was so weakened that he couldn’t even come back online.

The sound of the door opening interrupted his inner turmoil.

“Yo, Deadlock!  You’re online!” Deadheat’s vocals forced him to look up.  Both he and Astraea were standing at the door, fresh patch-jobs over their chestplates where they had been injured.  “That was _insane_ , what you did!”

“I’ll say,” Astraea agreed, though she was grinning.  They both approached the slab and leaned over it.  “As torn up as you were, you still distracted that big, ugly fragger so I could get away.  That took both guts and stupidity.”  She punched him in the shoulder.  “Thank Primus you proved my thinking that you had a processor wrong.  I’d be offline otherwise.”

“Yeah…” Deadlock replied, though he didn’t have much enthusiasm behind it.

“You alright, ‘Lock?” Deadheat asked.  “You’re being kinda quiet.  You should be celebratin’ with us!”

“You idiot, look at him!” the femme with him snapped, shoving Deadheat’s arm.  “I wouldn’t be keen on moving if I had that many wires sticking out of me.  Honestly, I’m just impressed he’s still online after that.”

“I guess so,” the red and blue mech huffed.  “Too bad he was down for the post-monster slaughter, though.”

Deadlock felt his tank turn, but didn’t say anything.  He couldn’t let them know he was feeling regret, _remorse_ for what happened.

“Don’t worry about it,” Astraea assured him.  She sounded sincerely concerned that Deadlock would feel bad he missed killing the rest of the people of Dabola.  “We couldn’t do it right after, anyway.  There was _way_ more of them and their armors than us at that point.  So we pinged Turmoil to send some backup while we kept the organics busy.  They seemed convinced that just because we helped them kill a monster that we were suddenly _friends_ or something.”

“Must be an organic thing,” Deadheat shrugged.  “But yeah, once the boss and the rest of our army got there it was pretty easy pickin’s, anyway.  Those giant armors that general buddy of yours helped pilot were really tough, it was no wonder you got the scrap beaten out of you by him.  Don’t worry, though.  Me and Astraea personally took care of that flea-bag.  Sent him your regards before doin’ it, too.”

“Soon as he figured out we were turning on him he put up a good fight, though,” the femme said.  “Took off an arm or two on some of our own ‘bots.  We paid him back for damaging you and offlining Carnivac, though.  Slagger deserved what he got.”

Deadlock felt himself almost lock back up listening to them.  They killed Tarok.  They told him that he’d wanted them to.  They did it partially because they thought _he’d_ offlined Carnivac.  He couldn’t tell them the truth.  But… oh, slag… no, no, no…

The younger Decepticon could feel the cord plugged into the back of his helm heating up.  The machine next to him started making erratic mechanical sounds.  His vents heaved, his spark flared.

“Oh, frag, _you two get out now!_ ” he heard Knock Out yell through the sound of the machines.  His vision was filling with fuzzy static, pain engulfing his processor.  All of the sounds of panic and beeping and… and… he wanted them to stop, just wanted everything to stop!  His entire chassis seemed to respond, shutting down once more.  He welcomed it.

 

()()()

 

“Deadlock, can you hear me?”

The young Decepticon tried to make a sound in response, but nothing came out.

“Deadlock, if you can, please let me know.  Nod your helm.  Move a servo.”

Deadlock concentrated hard on the thick, elite accent and the feeling of someone’s servos around his own.  He forced his own servos to move with effort, managing to at least twitch them in the hand they were in.

“Oh, thank Primus.”

“Yes, lucky for you, isn’t it?  I’m not losing him after all of the work I put into him, doctor.”

Deadlock knew that voice.  It was Turmoil.  The other one must’ve been Knock Out.  Why couldn’t he bring himself online?

“What happened?” Turmoil asked, obviously wondering the same thing.

“Something triggered a traumatic response from him.  I’m not surprised, as much damage as he took in that battle,” Knock Out answered, releasing Deadlock’s hand.  “You didn’t tell me that he was recovering from SUA.”

“I didn’t think that was any of your business,” Turmoil said in disgust.

“Being as you asked me to treat him, it _is_ my business,” the medic snapped.  “Softgrade addiction makes it so he needs special treatment when he’s this badly damaged.  Whatever triggered the fit he had made his processor start seeking coding that would give him the same numbing fix as his software upgrades.  Since I had his processor plugged in at the time, it started trying to get it from the computer that was defragging his CPU after it crashed when he finally went into stasis lock in the battle.  The programs the computer was running aren’t _for_ that, though, and thus it was overtaxing the defragging program instead and if I hadn’t yanked him from it on time it would have forced a full reboot of his entire processor.  You would have been dealing with a processor-dead soldier.”

There was a silence that followed that in which Deadlock tried not to panic over that news alone.  He came _that close_ to being… completely wiped?

After a short pause, Turmoil’s vocals returned.  “He’s responding now.  That means he will make a recovery?”

“If you would let me do the job you brought me here to do, then _yes_.  But if you and your soldiers keep disturbing me…” Knock Out trailed off and gave a startled sound.

“Careful how you speak to me, _medic_ ,” the cyberforming leader snarled.  “Being as you no longer wear our badge, no one will question your sudden _disappearance_ should anything happen.”

“Yes, yes!” Knock Out pleaded quickly.  “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again!”

“See that it doesn’t.  And see that my _asset_ is taken care of.  Are we clear?”

There wasn’t an answer to the demand until the sound of the door sliding open and closed.  The medic muttered to what Deadlock could only assume was a now, besides the two of them, empty room, “Crystal, you brute.  Honestly, mechs like you just remind me why I left…”

The next few cycles were spent in silence.  Deadlock was aware of Knock Out’s movements, as he could hear him walking around his slab and feel adjustments be made to the wires and cords littering his chassis.  Every once in a while Knock Out would mutter something under his breath that was only somewhat recognizable, but he wasn’t really trying.

“I know you can hear me,” Knock Out finally spoke up.  “You likely heard my… conversation with your boss, as well.  You were very lucky.  I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that you could have been rendered completely malfunctioning.  He never gave me access to your repair records.  I asked if there were any kind of upgrades you’ve been using and he insisted there wasn’t anything.  You wouldn’t know why he lied to me, would you?”

Deadlock didn’t think he could answer the question even if he _could_ speak at the moment.  He knew why, but it wasn’t something he was keen on admitting out loud.  That being a former softgrade addict was an embarrassment.  That he was still getting urges, despite being off of them for stellars.

The feeling of Knock Out sitting on the slab and unplugging a few of the cords in his chestplate came to Deadlock.  Knowing very well that the young Decepticon couldn’t answer, Knock Out kept talking.  “Look at you.  You’re far too young for any of this.”  The sound of him ex-venting as a new cord was plugged into Deadlock’s chestplate, just under his neck.  “I’m reactivating your optical functions.  3… 2…”

There was a spark of power behind Deadlock’s optics and he felt them come back online.  He hadn’t been aware that was why he couldn’t see before.  It wasn’t often medics manually shut down those kinds of functions.

There was static at first.  After a few kliks that cleared up, the black and white Decepticon finding himself staring at the ceiling.  He looked around, making sure he had full function of them back.  When his gaze landed on the cherry-red medic there were two things he noticed immediately.  One was that he looked deep in thought staring at Deadlock, though over what it was hard to tell.  The other was that the white paint on his faceplate was scuffed with purple transfer.  He wanted to ask about it, but his vocals came out as fuzzy static.

“Oh!” Knock Out snapped out of his thoughts and went back to typing at the datapad he was holding.  The cord on it was connected to the one on Deadlock’s neck.  “Sorry about that, you just reminded me of…” he trailed off and shook his helm.  “Nevermind, that’s not important.  Let’s get those vocals working.”  A few more kliks spent in silence and he said, “Alright, try now, sweetspark.”

Deadlock opened his mouth and made a few experimental sounds.  They broke at first, but began to clear up after a few tries.  Finally he lifted his arm and pointed to Knock Out’s face.  “What’s that?” he asked.

The medic looked utterly confused, pulling a small mirror out of his hip compartment.  He gasped when he saw the paint transfer.  “Primus below!” he yelped, pulling a small bottle out this time.  He looked around and turned fully to the baffled Deadlock.  “Here, if you can move your arm now, can you hold this for me?” he asked, holding out the mirror.

Deadlock nodded numbly and took the mirror from the medic.  He held it so Knock Out could see himself, watching in fascination as the gleaming mech opened the bottle and pulled a small brush covered in what looked like white paint out.  He set to work covering the paint transfer, muttering profanities to himself.  “Honestly, that complete… _swine_ of a mech.  It’s hard enough to keep myself looking presentable on my travels.  I don’t need slag like him ruining the finish with his filthy servos…”

“Turmoil hit you?” Deadlock surmised.

“Of course he did.  That’s all trash like him understands in this universe: violence.  It was ‘bots like him that made me leave the Decepticons.  If it weren’t for war-mongering idiots like him, my darling Breakdown would still be online.”

“Breakdown?” the young Decepticon echoed.  He watched Knock Out use his servos to smooth out the paint, closing the bottle and putting it away.

The medic took the mirror out of Deadlock’s servos and held it close to himself while he checked for any more imperfections on his pristine faceplate.  “I’m not surprised you don’t know who he is.  Most ‘bots don’t.  I got all the fame for my exploits during the war, running into the middle of active warzones to do my job.  More importantly, _surviving_ doing so without becoming a cynical, hateful glitch.  No one ever remembers Breakdown, though.  He was the reason I _did_ survive it all.”  He put the mirror away as well, pulling out a cloth and wiping the white paint from his servos.  “He was a true Decepticon, back when that meant something.  Before even Megatron forgot why he started fighting.”  He paused, optics looking distant.  After a moment he shook his helm, resetting his optics.  “Listen to me, babbling on.  I have to get the rest of you back online.”

“It’s okay,” Deadlock assured him.  There was something about listening to Knock Out talk about this Breakdown that made him feel… relaxed.  Maybe it was the fact that he’d never seen anyone speak with so much affection in their vocals before.  “How old are you, though?”

Knock Out turned to him in horror.  He put his hands on his hips and leaned forward.  “Didn’t your creators ever tell you it’s rude to ask someone that question?”

“I never really had creators,” the Decepticon admitted.

That caused the bright red medic to falter, going from irritated to embarrassed.  “Ah… I see.”  He reset his vocals and picked the datapad back up, looking awkward all of the sudden.  “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Deadlock shrugged.  Without full motor function it wasn’t much of one, though.  He decided to change the subject.  “If this is going to take a while… why _did_ Megatron start the war?”

Knock Out tapped at the datapad with the stylus for a moment, thinking.  “You’ve probably heard the propaganda version, haven’t you?  The Autobots drove the Destron army to the brink of exhaustion, never recognizing them as citizens.  The mighty and powerful Megazarak rose to lead them against their oppressors until he fell to treachery at their servos.  And then a lone gladiator named Megatron rose up to take his place, leading them to glorious war and blah, blah, blah…”  The medic used his servos on one hand as a mouth, mocking the act of speaking at length.

“Is that not what happened?” Deadlock asked, interested.  He was surprised, as he never heard anyone actually… _make fun_ of Megatron before.

“As a basic outline, it’s… _about_ right,” Knock Out admitted as he went back to work.  “Except Megazarak wasn’t slain by Autobot treachery.  He was offlined by a member of the Destrons when someone found out that he was making a deal with the Autobot High Command of the time.  This was back when the Destrons were just rebels.  A… minor inconvenience, if anything.  I was only a youngling at the time, but…”  He put a hand to his mouth in embarrassment.  “Well, after scolding you for asking… I suppose you know how old I am now.”

“You were around _before_ the Great War?” Deadlock asked in astonishment.  This mech didn’t look anywhere _near_ that old of a model.

Knock Out puffed his chestplate out proudly, preening himself fondly.  “I’ve worked incredibly hard at making sure it doesn’t show.  Megatron is an older model than I am, yet no one bothers him about it.”

Deadlock couldn’t think of a response, as that was an incredibly valid point.

“Anyway, it was a _huge_ scandal.  My sparkline is Elite, so I can’t say what exactly happened in the Destrons at the time.  However, from what I heard later Megatron started the rumor that the Autobots had murdered Megazarak and then made it look like one of the Destrons did it as a cover-up.  The rebellion had sparked for the right reasons.  The Autobots _did_ in fact treat the Destrons as if they weren’t even citizens.  When they rose up and took over Fort Trypticon in response, many of those who also felt ground under the pedes of the Council and the Elite flocked there to join.”

“I understand that,” Deadlock muttered.  “That’s why I’m here.”

“I don’t doubt that.  Many ‘bots still come here because they feel the Autobots are still as corrupt as ever.  You all want to do something about it.  That was how the war broke out,” Knock Out stood and walked over to the console on the other side of the room, typing a few things in while he kept talking.  “Megatron was charismatic and brilliant.  He articulated all of the frustrations they felt perfectly, recounting his own challenges being a gladiator.  He wanted to overthrow the Autobot Council, or at least fight them into a corner.  Then they would topple the Elite class system, set up an entirely new government, and rewrite the rules of Cybertronian society so everyone would be equal.  No matter your function, no matter how, where, or why you were sparked, you would have all the same rights and opportunities as everyone else.”

“But… you just said you’re Elite.  You would’ve been knocked down from that if he succeeded, wouldn’t you?” Deadlock realized.  “So why did you join the Destrons?”

“They were the Decepticons by the time I did.  And I joined for the same reason members of the Elite joined the Autobot Army.  I sympathized with the cause I was given.  I knew the dream of a completely equal system was nothing but that, a dream.  But I felt pity, and I wanted to help them at least become recognized.  I’m not the only Elite to join the Decepticons for such reasons.  We accepted the social exile we were subjected to and brought our functions and talents over to help topple the government that gave us our privilege.”

“You still haven’t told me what being a Decepticon ‘meant’ back then.  How Breakdown was a great one by that standard,” Deadlock pointed out as he Knock Out returned to his slab and continued his work.

“Being a Decepticon was something noble, despite the name,” the medic answered.  “Autobots gave us the name to hurt morale.  Instead, Megatron wore it as a badge of honor.  A sign that the Autobots were so afraid of the Destron forces that they had to resort to name-calling just to make them seem less of a threat.”  He paused a moment while he adjusted another cord.  “It’s hard to put into words what it truly meant to be a Decepticon.  Breakdown always told me he was proud to wear the sigil because it was a ‘badge of hope that we could be better than what everyone always told us.’  He’d been sparked for demolition, but it wasn’t necessarily what he wanted to do with his lifecycle.  He wasn’t sure at first what he _did_ want to do with it, but the Decepticons promised that when the war was over it wouldn’t matter.  Whatever he chose, he would be given the opportunity.”

“You make it sound like he decided eventually.”

Knock Out’s servos paused their work and his whole frame seemed to slump in defeat.  At that moment, he looked every bit as old of a model as he was.  “That… is not important.  The point of my story is that when the Decepticons rose and fought against the Autobots it was for something substantial.  Something that isn’t there anymore.  ‘Bots like Turmoil are here so they can do what they want, yes.  But it’s not because they want to fight for their freedom.  It’s because what they want to do is _murder_.  And the Decepticons have become a place where that can be done without questions.”

Deadlock didn’t reply to this one.  He looked back at the ceiling and tried to deny what Knock Out was saying.  He didn’t just join so he could offline ‘bots.  He became a Decepticon so he could make something of himself.

Now look what he _did_ make himself into.  Exactly what Knock Out said Turmoil and his ilk were.  A murderer.  Deadlock took Turmoil up on his offer knowing this was what he was going to do.  Knowing that the only reason he was being asked was because he’d offlined those mechs in that alley without remorse.  He _enjoyed_ killing all of those organics he was taken on to murder.

General Tarok appeared in his processor again and he shuttered his optics tight against the accusatory look the deceased Dabolan was giving him.

“Why am I here…?” Deadlock muttered, covering his faceplate with a hand.  “What am I doing?  I don’t… I don’t want to be here anymore…”

Knock Out didn’t reply for a moment.  Finally, he said, “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice anymore.  I escaped the Decepticons because they knew they couldn’t stop me.  I’m a war hero with thousands of battles behind me, even if I spent the vast majority of them with a repair kit in my servos.  You’re just a confused youngling who’s discovering his conscience.”  He stood up again and glanced at the young mech tormenting himself over the bad decisions he’d made with his lifecycle.  “However, if _I_ were a confused youngling confined to a repair slab on a ship bound for New Kaon, I would think of a way off of said ship soon.”  He picked up his datapad and disconnected it from Deadlock’s neck.  “I, personally, am not going to condone nor assist with any kind of ill-advised escape plan you may or may not come up with.  However, I would advise you at least wait four solar cycles.  That is when you should be mostly repaired, at least enough to move across the ship.  It will also be when I will be leaving the ship, no doubt monitored by Turmoil and his security team to make sure that I don’t try and steal anything.”

“Why would you steal anything?  You’re neutral,” Deadlock asked.

Knock Out chuckled.  “No one is truly neutral, sweetspark.  Out here, it’s us or them.  Who ‘we’ or ‘they’ are, that is something you will have to determine on your own.  But everyone is loyal to someone.  It may not be the Decepticons or Autobots.”

“Who are you loyal to?”

The medic smiled, ticking a servo back and forth while walking towards the door.  “Now, now, that would be telling.  But I assure you, it’s no one you need concern yourself with.  I’m going to get something to energize with, would you like anything?”

 

()()()()()

 

Four solar cycles later, Deadlock found himself sneaking across the ship.  Knock Out had been right, he was mostly repaired by now.  Most of the damage he still had was superficial at best.  When the medic had disconnected him from all of his wires and gave him a cheerful goodbye and ‘good luck,’ the young Decepticon knew this was his one chance.  Turmoil would be distracted with Knock Out’s depart.  Most of the rest of the crew wouldn’t question Deadlock being up and around.  He was laid up for a decacycle and a half at this point.  He’d want to stretch his leg joints and regain his bearings around the ship.

Still, Deadlock felt paranoid.  He knew he was doing something that Turmoil would quite literally offline him for if he found out.  It made him feel like everyone else could tell.  He pulled his EM field in as tight as possible, on the off chance someone could read his guilt off of it.  He still tried to avoid as many people as possible, just in case someone delayed him.

As he approached the escape pods, his spark clenched with that uneasy feeling that he wasn’t going to make it.  He would get caught.  He looked up towards the security cameras in panic, despite how conspicuous he knew it was going to make him.

No, he had to not think about it.  Just get to an escape pod and get out of there.  He couldn’t stay any longer, not with the murderers that remorselessly killed the Dabolans he worked so hard trying to protect.

Where was he going to go?  Deadlock didn’t know.

Not Cybertron.  He couldn’t go back there.  Not where he’d just end up in a gutter again.  Or worst when he showed up wearing a Decepticon sigil.  They’d have every reason to throw him into a cell, but he wouldn’t let them.  They didn’t have a right to judge him, not when they were the reason he turned to this in the first place.

There had to be somewhere.  He should have asked Knock Out during the times they talked.  Mostly Knock Out just complained about having to be there around Turmoil and his crew, and how he was going to take a much-needed vacation on Hedonia after all of this.  Deadlock considered that, but it was impossible.  Hedonia was on the aft-end other side of the universe.

This wasn’t important right now.  He could figure out where he’d direct the pod once he got one.  He needed to concentrate on getting one now.

When he arrived at the door to the Escape Pod Bay, Deadlock allowed the lock to scan him.  The pad on the door turned green when it recognized his spark-signature and he rushed in as soon as the door opened.

This was it.  All he had to do was get in one and get out of there.

_“Deadlock, what are you doing?!”_

The Decepticon stopped in his tracks, vents heaving at the sound of Turmoil’s vocals.  He swallowed the lump that suddenly formed in his throat components and activated the commlink.  “What do you mean?” he asked as casually as he could manage.

_“I was just informed that your spark signature was used to access the Escape Pod Bay.  What are you doing there?”_

“I’m…” Deadlock tried to come up with an excuse but fell short.  What could he say?  So he rushed towards one and pressed the button on the door, opening it.  “I’m sorry, Turmoil.  I can’t do this anymore.”

_“Deadlock, don’t you dare!  I swear to Primus, if you leave this ship…!”_

“I’m not stopping.  I’m getting out of here.”  Deadlock started pushing buttons, activating the pod as he spoke.

_“You think you can run from me?!  I will find you, I will drag you back here, and I will personally take you apart piece by piece!  No one leaves this-!”_

Deadlock heard a grunting sound, followed by several curses.  The escape pod he was in left it’s docking clamps as several soldiers, the ones he’d worked alongside for more than a century, burst in.  They aimed at his pod, not one wavering.  He was more focused on Turmoil’s sudden struggle on the other end of the commlink.

_“Restrain him!  Spike-fragging little…”_

Deadlock felt his vents catch.  There was only one ‘bot that was with them who would have done something to help him, even though he said he wouldn’t.

 _“Deadlock, listen to me!”_   His suspicions were confirmed as Knock Out’s vocals came through the commlink this time.  He’d somehow managed to get into their conversation.  _“Get out of here and don’t look back!  No one owns you!  Not the Decepticons, not the Autobots, and **especially** not this sick, brutish-”  _ He was cut off as he gave a yelp.

“Knock Out!” Deadlock yelled in horror, knowing Turmoil had struck him again.  This time the damage was going to be a lot less superficial than some paint transfer on his face.  A laser-blast hit the side of his escape pod at the same time, causing it to jerk.  Deadlock was knocked forward and hit the launch lever.  Before he could correct it, go back and help the medic that was going against his better judgement to help him escape a situation he could no longer stay in, the rocket boosters activated and launched his pod out of the Escape Pod Bay.  He tried to pull back, stop, do _something_ , but hitting the console must’ve damaged it.  The controls were locked.  This was officially a one-way trip.

 _“Fraggit, you little glitch!  Deadlock, when I find you, I’m going to make you wish you were never sparked!”_   Turmoil’s vocals were the last thing he heard from the ship before he was out of comm-range.

He was now all alone.  No idea where he was going.  No idea what was going to happen to Knock Out.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz and Drift discuss what the revelation of his past means for his future. Afterwards, Drift gets to meet some of the other 'bots important to Jazz as he says goodbye.

Jazz didn’t know what to say as Drift finished telling his story.  He knew what happened next, heard it from Wing.  The entire tale was almost too much to handle, though.  They’d heard Dabola fell to the Decepticons, extending their territory, but the Autobots hadn’t been able to do anything about it.  Going into Decepticon territory, even for the right reasons, was nothing more than an invitation to reignite the war.  No doubt the Decepticons themselves wouldn’t mind, as they were looking for any excuse for it to happen.

After a few cycles in which Jazz processed everything he’d just been told, he finally said, “All that… it’s heavy, mech.  No wonder you’re feelin’ so messed up.  How do ya feel now that you told me it all, though?”

Drift looked at the table for a moment before answering, “Would it be weird to say… kind of better?”

“Nah.  Sometimes when you keep somethin’ deep inside your spark, hidin’ it, it festers.  Lettin’ it out is the only way to release that.”

The much younger mech nodded, seeming to understand.  He looked back up at Jazz.  “How do you feel hearing all of it?”

“I’m not gonna lie.  It wasn’t easy hearing about you slaughterin’ organics.  I really don’t wanna believe that you were capable of that, but it’s part of your past and nothing’s gonna change that,” Jazz admitted.  When Drift looked ashamed he reached across the table and put a hand on his shoulderplate.  “That’s not to say I’m disgusted with you.  I’m not gonna say it was okay, because it wasn’t.  What you did was something terrible, but that’s the you from back then.  As soon as you decided you wanted to protect the Dabolans you became somethin’ more than that.”

“You really think I can overcome that?” Drift asked, blue optics filled with the pain of a guilty spark.  “I killed so many organics… so many _people_ when I was with the Decepticons.  Can someone really forgive that?”

“No,” Jazz answered honestly.  “There’s nothing that will forgive the life you took.  But that doesn’t mean you can’t make yourself better.  When Turmoil picked you up in the Dead End, he was givin’ you a second chance.  You spent it spreading the hate and destruction the Decepticon name perpetuates.  When Wing found you after you ran away, brought you here, and gave you to Dai Atlas instead of makin’ you spend the rest of your lifecycle in Trypticon Prison, he gave you somethin’ rare.  Somethin’ almost no one else ever gets: a _third_ chance.  What matters now is what you do with that, dig?”

Drift looked speechless.  Like his processor was moving at a million thoughts per cycle.  He vented in deep, staring at the space in the middle of the table as if it contained the answer to all the questions he had.

Jazz let him go through it all in silence.  He wondered what he was thinking, but didn’t want to push.  These were hard things to figure out on one’s own.  But Drift didn’t have to, and the older cyberninja hoped he realized that.  He wasn’t just blessed with another chance, but several very kind and noble ‘bots that were willing to help him through it.

The younger mech surprised him by suddenly standing up and heading for the door.  Jazz thought for a moment that it was too much for him and he was retreating.  But he stopped and turned.  “Come with me,” he said, gesturing in kind.

Jazz found himself curious, so he stood up as well and did as instructed.  The former Decepticon led him out the back where the techno-organic garden was.  Back when Jazz had been a student, there was very little organic in that mix.  He stood, stunned at the sight before him when he saw what it was now.  Colorful flowers, soft and supple looking as opposed to the mechanical flora that was native to their planet, filled the area.  They reminded him of Earth.  Of the forests and gardens full of beautiful wildlife.

“Are you afraid of it?” Drift asked, snapping Jazz out back to reality.  He was watching the older mech intently.

“No, why would I be?” Jazz answered.  “It’s gorgeous.”

After a moment more of studying Jazz’s faceplate for any sign of dishonesty, Drift surprised him by doing something new.

He smiled.

It was honest and beaming, lighting up his usually sulky features.  He looked a mix of delighted and relieved, as if he were waiting for this.  “This is my favorite place in the dojo.  Dai Atlas is wary of the flowers, but I think they’re great,” he said, walking over to the edge of the garden and sitting down.  He patted the spot next to himself invitingly.

Jazz finally smiled back after his surprise and joined him, sitting down as well.  There was no doubt that Drift was truthful in his infatuation with the flora.  “Which ones are your favorites?” he asked.

“These,” Drift reached out and gently touched one of the yellow flowers behind him.  It lit up with circuitry at his touch, which peaked Jazz’s interest.  Not just because it was something that was unique to the biomechanical species Botanica was breeding.  He’d visited Botanica’s workshop in the Ministry of Science a few times, and he’d seen several scientists in her field touch the flowers there.  But none of those times did the biomechanical circuitry _react_ to it.  Without noticing Jazz’s intrigue, Drift continued to speak.  “There’s something… comforting about the color.”

“Ya know what I think?” Jazz asked, drawing the cyberninja-to-be’s attention back to himself.  “I think when you’ve made good progress with Dai Atlas in your trainin’, with his permission of course, you should come to Earth.  You’d like it there.”

“Really?” Drift actually looked fascinated by the idea.  “You’d want me to go to an organic world after… after what I told you?”

“Like I said,” Jazz reiterated, “What you do with your lifecycle _now_ is what’s important.  I believe you don’t wanna hurt anyone anymore.  And if you’re interested in organic life, Earth’s a good place for that.”

Drift looked from him to the flowers, deep in thought again.  He said, “Is it true you were bondmates with Prowl, the second mech with the full-body memorial?”

The sudden change in subject caught Jazz off guard.  “Yeah, why?” he asked.

“I hear he loved organic life, too,” Drift clarified.

Jazz smiled again.  “He did.  The room he stayed in back on Earth had a huge tree growin’ through the roof, but he didn’t mind it.  And he’d spend a lot of time on this island off the mainland in Detroit where the Dinobots lived, just so he could be around the animals without them getting scared away by people or other ‘bots.  He even made friends with one of the humans there, a kinda uptight one named Fanzone.  Come to think of it, Fanzone kinda reminds me of what you told me about Tarok.  Well, except Fanzone wouldn’t get in a mobile armor.  He _really_ hates machines.”

Drift scoffed.  “How in the pit did Prowl make friends with him, then?  I thought Earthlings would be accepting of us if you guys were allowed to stay there.”

“They are, mostly.  In fact, they build robots reverse-engineered from our technology, though they’re not really sentient and mostly just used for work.  Fanzone’s kinda a special case.  He doesn’t even like the tech they got on _their_ planet.  Didn’t you hear about the big commotion when he came here a while back?” Jazz asked.

“That must’ve been before I got here,” Drift shrugged, shaking his helm.  “What else are Earthlings, or humans or whatever you call them, like?”

Jazz settled back and prepared for a long solar of questions and answers.  He didn’t mind at all, as he was just glad Drift was opening up to him now.

 

()()()()()

 

A few solars later, Drift found himself standing at the spacebridge port with Dai Atlas.  Jazz was taking off with his team to head for Earth, the place that Drift was now thoroughly interested in.  They’d sat for megacycles talking about Earth’s culture.  It sounded fascinating, but Jazz was right.  He had to at least make progress with the cyberninja training he’d been sent to Alkaline to do.

Drift had been telling the truth when he said talking about his past had made him feel better.  As hard as it was to remember, something felt oddly liberating about putting it all out there in the open.  Especially telling it to someone he decided he could trust now.  Afterwards, he sat down with Dai Atlas and together they called Wing.  He recounted the story again to the both of them and braced himself for them to be nowhere near as understanding as Jazz had been.

Dai Atlas was indeed horrified by what he’d been told, but he didn’t seem to hold it against Drift what he’d done.  Wing reacted similarly to Jazz, assuring him that his past wouldn’t hold precedent to how he conducted himself in the future.  However, they did warn him that this would mean they had to keep him on a closer watch.  Even if Drift had no intentions of turning against them, they couldn’t simply trust his word in light of these revelations.  He couldn’t completely blame them, as this had little to do with his status as a former Decepticon and everything with his actual actions of the past.

He’d called Jazz to thank him for helping him open up to the people trying to help him, and in return was invited to see him off.  Dai Atlas had only agreed to let Drift do so if he accompanied him, but Drift didn’t mind.  He knew caution was going to become the norm for a while.

Arriving at the spacebridge port, Drift found they weren’t the only ones that had come to see them off.  In fact, there were several ‘bots gathered with the Earthen Autobots to say farewell.  One of them was extremely surprising, and a little nerve-wracking, to see.  Sentinel Magnus was there, though he didn’t seem interested in the goodbyes at all.  He stood to the back, looking bored and waiting for the circus to be over.  What he was doing there, Drift hadn’t the foggiest.

“Drift, Dai Atlas, thanks for comin’ to see us off!” Jazz called, waving him over to the group he was with.

The pair walked over, bowing politely to the group.  “We would have been remiss not to make it after the kind invitation, Jazz,” Dai Atlas replied.  “Thank you for inviting us.”

“Wow, who’s the stick-in-the-grease?” a yellow minibot muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Drift bristled and leaned down, poking him in the chestplate.  Dai Atlas and he may have had their disagreements, but the refined Elite mech was still his respected sensei.  “His designation is Dai Atlas, and you’d better show him some respect,” he snapped.

“That’s enough, Drift,” the noble mech said sternly.  “You will not cause trouble here.”

The up-and-coming ninjabot straightened obediently.  “Yes, sensei,” he said, though he still sounded bitter.

The yellow minibot was staring at him, seemingly unable to say another word.  Drift knew he wasn’t _that_ intimidating, so he couldn’t fathom what suddenly silenced him.

“Sorry about that,” a red and blue mech said, putting a hand on the yellow one’s shoulder.  “Bumblebee didn’t mean anything by it.  Did you?”

The minibot, Bumblebee, reset his optics a few times and looked to the other.  “Oh, yeah, didn’t mean anything at all,” he said quickly, looking away again.  He reset his vocals awkwardly.  “I’m gonna… go say goodbye to Bulkhead, Prime.”

“Alright,” the older mech said, baffled by Bumblebee’s behavior as the smaller mech ran off to a large green one.  He turned his attention back to the cyberninjas.  “So, you’re Drift, then?  I’m Optimus Prime, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Drift replied in confusion.  “Do we know each other?”

“O.P. here was one of the mechs that helped me figure you out,” Jazz explained.

“I didn’t do that much,” Optimus said modestly.  He didn’t behave like any high-ranking Autobot Drift ever imagined.

“I was the other one!”  The announcement behind Drift made him jump, turning quickly and coming faceplate-to-faceplate with a red and orange mech.  “I helped even though I was confined to a repair berth, so you’re welcome.  Name’s Rodimus Prime.”

“A-alright, hello,” Drift said awkwardly.  This new mech was a bit too close for comfort.

Rodimus tilted his helm, smile widening.  “You’re kinda cute, you know that?” he said cheerfully.  He passed Drift and walked up to Optimus, taking his arm.  “Hopefully you realize that’s not going to save you from my wrath if you keep looking at Optimus.  He’s all mine.”

Drift didn’t know what to say, looking from the flirty Rodimus to the flustered and now blushing Optimus.

The blue and red Prime saved him from having to come up with anything by objecting loudly.  “We’re _not_ together!  Rodimus just likes to tease, though I’ve never been able to figure out _why_.  What did I ever do to you?” he asked the grinning red and orange one.

“I’ll let you know one day,” Rodimus promised vaguely.

Dai Atlas chuckled next to Drift, reminding him that the older mech was there.  He’d actually forgotten, the Elite was so quiet.

“We is back!”

The stereo announcement coming from above them made Drift look upwards quickly.  Two Cybertronian jets rushed towards them, causing him to almost panic.  Did the Decepticons find them?  Was his hiding all for naught just because of this one excursion outside of Alkaline since his inception as an Autobot?

The answer was a resolute ‘no’ as the two jets transformed into their robot modes in front of them, landing on either side of Jazz.  One was orange and white while the other was blue and gold.  “We are doing the sweeping of area,” the blue one said.

“And there is no one suspicious being here,” the orange one finished.

“Solid, thanks, kiddos,” Jazz replied, holding a hand up to each of them.  The two gave him a high five, grinning widely.  “Jetfire, Jetstorm, this is Drift and Dai Atlas.  They live at the Alkaline Dojo now that it’s reopening.”

“It is being nice to meeting you!” the two mechs chorused.

“You too,” Drift found himself smiling as he answered.  There was something… infectious about how enthusiastic they were.  “I heard the Autobots had made their own fliers.  I don’t know if I really believed it before.”

“Yes, we are being first specimens of much importance!” Jetstorm announced, posing.

His brother joined him in the antics, adding, “Being the secret weapons, we are!”

“Not much of ‘secret weapons’ if you go announcing it everywhere you go!” Sentinel Magnus yelled at them, annoyed.

“Are you twins?” Drift asked curiously.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Jetfire answered.

“Your face is being unfortunate!” Jetstorm huffed at him.

Jazz put a hand on each of their helms as they took offensive poses towards each other.  “Alright, you two, not the place or time, dig?” he said, looking sternly between them.

The twins immediately snapped to attention and saluted.  “Sorry, sir!” they chorused.

“You’ve got quite the group of friends,” Drift pointed out.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“Give it time and you’ll be makin’ plenty, too,” Jazz replied, rubbing the twins on top of their helms.  “Trust me, ya just need to meet the right people.”

“Alright, we should get going,” Optimus announced, raising a hand and waving it to get the rest of his teams’ attention.  “Come on, guys!  We need to roll out!”

Jazz nodded and gave the twins one last hug, letting them run off to Sentinel.  “Alright, looks like we’ll be goin’ now.  Again, thanks for comin’, guys,” he said.

“Our pleasure,” Dai Atlas nodded.

“Yeah, it was… nice.  Made me feel like this might be a little bit normal,” Drift smiled.

Jazz chuckled and went to join Optimus at the spacebridge.  Bumblebee followed soon, joined after by a large, red mech and a red and white femme.  She was being tailed by another mech in whites, grays, and some odd green and red stripes.

“Wait, Red!  I almost forgot, Perce wanted you to take this with you,” the mech trailing her said, handing her a bulky-looking datapad.  “He wants scans of everything you can get.”

“I know, I know, Jack.  If he wants to see Earth so bad, why doesn’t he just come, too?” the femme huffed.

“We’re talkin’ ‘bout the same Perceptor, right?  Skinny, super-smart, never goes further than twenty mechanometers from his office if he can help it?” the mech joked.

“I get it, no need to be smart with me,” Red finally cracked a smile, pushing him with her good hand.  “I’ll talk to you over comm later, Wheeljack.  Let Perceptor know his absence was noted here this solar.”

“I can hear him shiverin’ with terror from here,” Wheeljack joked.  “Later, Red.”  He backed off and made his way to the spacebridge operating panel, pressing a few buttons to activate it.

As the blue portal opened up, Optimus called over to where the large, green mech (Bulkhead, apparently) was.  “Sari!  We have to go!”

“Coming!”

Drift watched in fascination as a tiny Cybertronian, barely as large as Optimus’s helm as she landed on his shoulderplate, joined them.  He’d never seen a cybernetic being so small before.  He joined in waving to them as they left, finding amusement in the exaggerated flailing Rodimus Prime was giving his not-really bondmate.

All feeling of mirth left Drift in an instant as he was suddenly overwhelmed with dread.  There was an overwhelming feeling of being watched, something he trained over a century and a half of being in the Decepticons.  It always paid to recognize the signs you were being spied on.

His optics darted around quickly, hoping he didn’t alert the others.  If there was a spy among them, he didn’t want them to realize he knew they were there and get away.

There!  Out of the corner of his optic he spotted movement.  It was in the shadows, far away from them.  He turned his helm minimally to be able to get a look at the area, but whatever had been there was gone now.  He probably spooked them when he turned his helm that direction.

“Is there something wrong, Drift?” Dai Atlas asked in a whisper.  He was aware that he was trying not to attract attention.

“It’s nothing, sensei,” Drift half-lied.  “I thought I saw someone, but it must’ve been my imagination circuits.”

“Hmm,” the noble mech didn’t seem completely convinced, but he didn’t press the issue.  “Well, now that they have returned to Earth, shall we return to the dojo?”

“Sure, Master Dai Atlas,” the younger mech nodded, noticing that the rest of the crowd was dispersing as well.

As they left the spacebridge port, Drift took one more look to make sure there really was nothing there.  Sure enough, he couldn’t see anyone sneaking or hiding in the shadows.  Maybe it really _was_ just his imagination circuits.

After all, being in hiding could make one paranoid.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the doors to the Dojo are about to open, Drift receives two kinds of news. One fantastic... and one foreboding.

Two decacycles passed without incident as the grand reopening of the Alkaline Cyberninja Dojo approached.  The solar before then, Drift spent his time helping Dai Atlas sort through applications and requests one last time to make sure they didn’t forget anything.  It was strange and interesting reading up on his soon-to-be fellow students.  He didn’t know what he was expecting.  More demands of triple-filtered Enjex, maybe?  Sometimes it was hard to remember that at their core Autobots and Decepticons were no different from each other.

Speaking of…

“Did we order the filtered energon for Silhouette?  She has a strong allergic reaction otherwise,” Drift pointed out.

“Yes, we have plenty arriving this lunar cycle.  I’m pleased that you’re showing concern for your fellow students, Drift,” Dai Atlas said, glancing at the younger Autobot.

“Yeah, well,” Drift didn’t know how to reply to that.  It was true that he was less opposed to the idea of actually attending classes and learning Circuit-Su with others.  A lot of it had to do with having opened up about his past.  He knew that Dai Atlas wouldn’t go spreading his history around to the others, and he wasn’t about to start talking about it himself.  But if Dai Atlas and Wing could accept him after learning the worst, it gave him hope that Autobots weren’t as bad as he always perceived them as.

Maybe if anyone asked he’d at least tell them he was from the Dead End.  Not that he was a recovering softgrade junkie, of course.  But starting with something small wouldn’t hurt.

“Speaking of your progress, I spoke with Wing earlier this solar.  We came to an agreement we think you will like,” the Cyberninja Master continued.  When Drift looked at him in interest, he said, “In light of your history with the factions, we have decided to put a new option on the table for if you graduate into a member of the Cyberninja Corps.”

“If,” Drift echoed.

“We are simply taking into account many possibilities which could prevent you from completing your training here.  As much discomfort as it causes us to consider, we need to keep at the forefront that you may be here under false pretenses.”

The younger mech cringed, looking away from him.  “You mean as a spy…” he muttered bitterly.  After a moment he ex-vented and nodded.  “I understand…” he conceded.

“If you prove to have no ill intentions and complete your training, we have decided to allow you at that time to choose what you wish to do with your lifecycle.  Whether that means joining the Elite Guard, retiring to a normal life, or…” Dai Atlas trailed off, but it wasn’t hesitation.  He was looking to Drift, making sure he was paying full attention.

And as Drift waited for him to finish, he began piecing together what he was trying to say on his own.  There was no reason Wing needed to be consulted about anything concerning the Autobots or the Elite Guard.  The only reason he would have a say in this… “Wait, are you saying…?” he began excitedly.  He was afraid to finish, though, in case he was misunderstanding.

Dai Atlas smiled, nodding.  “If you choose so when you graduate, we will allow you to not only revoke your status as an Autobot, but you will be granted the opportunity to become a full member of the Circle of Light.”

“Star Saber?”

“Has agreed.  He is willing to give you the benefit of the doubt if you prove yourself worthy in the optics of Primus.  That means dedicating yourself to the cyber martial arts until you have graduated in one of the fields.”

Drift was so ecstatic from the news he jumped to his wheeled pedes, hopping between the two.  “You’re serious?!  I can join the Circle?!” he cheered.  “This is… it’s…!”  He couldn’t find words to properly express his excitement.

Dai Atlas simply watched him, smiling warmly.  It was nice to see Drift so happy for once, making it completely worth telling him the news.  “Are you going to stand here dancing over this news, or go give it to Jazz?” he mused.

“I’m going!  Getting!  Gone!” Drift assured him, dashing out of the room towards his own.

Jazz had given him the frequency for Teletraan-1, the computer they used on Earth.  Drift didn’t contact him often, but every once in a while they’d update each other on what was happening.  It felt… nice.  He hadn’t talked to anyone regularly since he left the Decepticons.

Skidding into his room, Drift tapped up the frequency onto his comm-station.  Dai Atlas had only allowed him to have a personal one in his room after they came to the agreement that his conversations would be monitored.  Mostly it just made a note of who he was calling or receiving.  So far it’d been no one but Jazz and his team.  Since the frequency was for their main comm, there was a 20% chance someone else was going to answer.

Interestingly, when Drift dialed the frequency this time, it wasn’t answered by any of the five ‘bots.  Instead, Sari Sumdac picked up.  She was the tiny Cybertronian he’d seen at the spacebridge, though he later found out that she was actually a biomechanical being.  Half-Cybertronian, half-human.

“Earth Autobot Headquarters, how may I direct your call?” the diminutive femme said as she answered the call.  She was pinching her olfactory sensor (nose?) while she spoke, making her voice come out extremely nasally.

“Hey, Sari, can you get me Jazz?” Drift asked, settling down.

Sari let go of her nose and glanced at him.  “Oh, hey, Drift.  Sure, give me a second.”  She turned around and took in a deep breath, yelling, “ _Yo, Jazz!  Your boyfriend’s on the phone!”_

Drift didn’t recognize three of those words.  From his understanding she grew up on Earth as a human, thus spoke in their colloquial.  Maybe he’d have her act as his translator if he ever managed to get there.

After a few kliks Jazz came into view.  He sat down at the console and waved.  “Sup, Drift?”  Before waiting for an answer he looked down to Sari.  “Thanks, kid.  We’re gonna have a private conversation, though, so…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Sari turned and jumped off the console where she’d been sitting.  After disappearing from view, Drift could hear her say, “You guys better be getting me _so_ many milkshakes for playing secretary today!”

Jazz laughed and looked back to Drift.  “Sorry ‘bout that.  Like I said, sup?”

“No problem,” the younger mech answered, leaning back in his seat.  “I just wanted to tell you the greatest news ever.  Dai Atlas, Wing, and Star Saber agreed that when I graduate from training I can be in the Circle of Light!”

“No kiddin’?  That’s great, mech!” Jazz replied, leaning forward on the console.  He was careful not to accidentally lean on any buttons.  “That’s solid, Drift.  Cyberninja trainin’ takes anywhere between millennia to even millions of stellars.  Keep it up and be patient and I know you can get there, though.”

“Thanks,” Drift grinned.  He appreciated that Jazz never questioned whether or not he could, unlike Dai Atlas.  “I’m going to train as hard as I can.  I want to get there quick so I can join Wing in the Circle.  Can’t wait to scrape this badge off my chestplate.”

“Don’t try to do it too fast, though,” Jazz warned.  “Hurrying through ninja training is how you make mistakes, even get hurt.  I know you can do it, but don’t try to do it too fast.  ‘Slow and steady wins the race’.”

Drift nodded sheepishly.  “Right, I know.  That a Yoketron saying?” he asked.  He was hearing a lot of them, but that didn’t sound familiar.

“Human, actually.  Something related to a story about a race between a couple’a Earth creatures, but it sounded fitting here.”

“Doesn’t sound terrible,” Drift laughed.  “Speaking of stories, I finished _Once Upon a Hill of Scrap_.”

“Really?  What’d you think?”

“The ending was… intense.  But really thought-provoking.”

“You contact Wing to tell him what the moral was, like he asked you to?” Jazz asked.

“Yeah, and he seemed really interested in my answer,” Drift answered.  “It felt like he… I don’t know.  Like he didn’t know what the lesson behind it was himself.”

“That’s because he didn’t,” Jazz said.

“What?” Drift sat up and tilted his helm to the side.

The older mech laughed, shaking his helm.  “I love how many ‘bots don’t know,” he mused.

“Know what?  Don’t just leave me hanging,” Drift demanded.

“That book isn’t just a really solid read, though it definitely is,” Jazz said.  “It’s a psychological experiment.  Look at the front page.”

Drift reached to the side where he’d put the story-pad when he was talking to Wing.  He powered it up and booted it to the front page as he was told.  He was met with the fuzzy image of the title and its author.  “I don’t get it.  _Once Upon a Hill of Scrap,_ by Rung.”

“Wow, you really don’t know who Rung is?” Jazz asked, surprised.  When Drift shook his helm, looking defensive that he was expected to know this but didn’t, he elaborated.  “He’s one of the foremost experts on Cybertronian psychology in the universe.”

“I didn’t exactly have a lot of time to study things like that while fragging my processor into slag,” Drift muttered, embarrassed.

“Right, sorry,” Jazz apologized sheepishly.  “He wrote this story millions of stellars ago, back before the Great War.  Alkaline made me read it back when she was teachin’ me back in the Dead End.  All Cybertronian teachers do.  Viral told me he read it, too, so it’s probably required in Decepticon territory as well.  All students have to write up what they thought the lesson or moral of the story is.  It’s almost like an… instant psychological analysis of a ‘bot.”

Drift looked at the buttons on the console, thinking.  “I wonder what my answer said about me, then.”

“What’d you tell him?” Jazz asked.

“That it’s never too late to start your lifecycle,” Drift answered, looking back to him.  “Spinout came from nothing, with the entire universe seeming to conspire to grind him down.  But as soon as he had a chance to finally make something from his lifecycle, he took it with both hands and didn’t let go.”

“That tells me that you don’t wanna waste your new chance,” Jazz said, smiling.  “The thing that makes Spinout a great character to measure people with is that he’s relatable.  The lesson ‘bots take from his experience will reflect their own lives.”

“What did you take from it?” Drift asked curiously.

“Back when I was a youngling?  That everyone has the chance to be good.  Even though he had every reason to believe Firebrand, Shear, and the rest of the troublemakers on his ship would turn on him at some point, he never stopped believin’ in them.”

Drift smiled back after a moment.  “I can definitely see that in you.  A mech who met an abrasive, defensive ‘kid’ and refused to give up on him no matter what you found out.  Just… don’t let that trust go to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“I’ll try my best,” Jazz agreed.  “Alright, I gotta go.  I’m up for patrol in a couple’a cycles.  Talk to ya later, mech.”

“You got it,” Drift nodded, ending the transmission.  He stood up and stretched, the buzz from his excitement wearing off.  He looked around his room, which had a few more decorations now.  He finally decided to spend one of his outings to Alkaline Village itself doing a bit of shopping.  He usually went there to keep watch for anyone suspicious, still feeling paranoid, but Dai Atlas had convinced him to get at least something to make the room his own.  He had even given him a few shanix to pay for it.

Despite the now colorful furnishings, which included a replica ancient Alkalinian battle mask and a picture of the Rust Sea that appealed to him, his favorite was still the flower he’d accidentally cut from the garden.  As long as he kept the special nutrient-rich fuel fresh inside its glass it stayed healthy.  He knew it wouldn’t always, but he would keep it alive as long as he could.  Something about the golden-yellow color was comforting.

When the young white and red mech stopped focusing on the delicate flora, though, he froze.  There was something on the side table he hadn’t put there.  He approached cautiously, trying to rationalize where the folded, circuit-filled holo-card that was propped carefully against his flower’s make-shift vase could have come from.  Perhaps Dai Atlas…?  No, he respected Drift’s space enough not to go into his room without permission.  He hadn’t given him any reason to cause him to break that part of their understanding.

His hydraulic lines ran cold when he saw the emblem on the cover of the black card.  It was a swirling, gleaming neon-green pattern.  They almost looked like an avian creature in flight, but in truth was heavily modified Kaonian lettering spelling out the owner’s name.  Unreadable unless one knew who it belonged to.  And the Decepticon-turned-Autobot had stared at that emblem across from himself in Kaonian bars so many times he would recognize it anywhere.

Drift looked to the door to make sure he’d closed it.  When that was affirmed he swallowed the lump forming in his throat and sat down, picking up the card and opening it.  He watched in dread as a small holographic image projected on top of it.  The black and green mech smiling triumphantly at him, as if he could see Drift’s distressed faceplate, began speaking.

“Well, hello there, Deadlock.  Or rather, should I say Drift?  What a time I’ve had trying to find you.”  Viral’s figure shifted, hand on his hip and optic ridge over his visor raising.  “Honestly, the lengths you went to make sure we couldn’t find you were _ridiculous_.  Mind you, most of them were surely unintentional, but I can’t believe what I found when I finally tracked you down.  It wasn’t easy piecing everything together, mind you.  I could have just followed that Elite Guard cutie I talked to… Jazz, was it?  But I wasn’t risking being discovered after he painstakingly told me you didn’t want to be found.”

Drift leaned back against the back of his berth and vented heavily, covering his faceplate with a hand.  When Jazz had told him he’d talked to Viral, who had been incredibly worried about him ever since he disappeared, he braced himself.  He didn’t know what to expect, but the neutral was rarely if ever subtle despite his proficiency as a spy.

“You’re worrying about me telling Turmoil right now, aren’t you?  I can practically see your faceplate.  I wasn’t lying to Jazz when I told him I was worried about you.  That Turmoil didn’t know I was here.  We’re _friends_ , Drift.  It… actually kind of hurts that you don’t trust me enough to contact me like Jazz undoubtedly asked you to.  He seems like the honest sort of mech that would keep a promise like that.”  Viral placed the other hand on his hip, leaning forward.  “So that means you’ve simply chosen to _ignore_ poor, dear Viral.  Well, lucky for you I don’t plan on telling Turmoil where you are.”

Drift ex-vented in relief.

Until the next line that came from the card.

“Unlucky for you, it’s because I’m spiteful.  The only reason I’m not telling Turmoil about the cute little village of Alkaline is because I’ve seen how attached you’ve become to it.  Don’t think I haven’t seen you out in the market, or taking care of those… Primus-forsaken organic plants.  Honestly, how you can touch those I haven’t the foggiest.  However, all of that goes away if I tell Turmoil where to find you.  Even if the Elite Guard sent a unit to guard this place, it would be utterly destroyed by the battle that would ensue here.  You don’t want that, now do you, Deadlock?”

Drift’s spark sank at the words.  While he still would rather have chosen where he would spend his probation outside of Trypticon, he didn’t want to cause trouble for Dai Atlas and Alkaline Village.  Much less did he want Turmoil to come flying in and slaughter everyone.

“Because I’m going to assume you’ve gone soft in the time you went missing and agreed that you’d be deeply spark-broken should anything happen to your new home, I’ll give you my conditions.  First, you will tell no one I’ve contacted you.  I’ll leave my little calling-cards if I need to tell you anything.  I don’t care how you wish to respond to me, as that ship sailed when you decided to ignore me, so all of our conversations will be one-sided: _mine_.  I’ll know if you tell anyone about me, so don’t even think about it.  If you do, your aft is Turmoil’s.”

Drift swallowed again, nodding even though the holographic Viral couldn’t actually see him.  He had no doubt Viral had his ways to keep an eye on the dojo.  This was his job, after all.

“Second, if I ask you to do anything you will do it without hesitation.  Don’t worry, I won’t be asking you to harm or offline anyone.  However, if I ask you to, say… spy on someone important visiting and leave a report of everything that happened with them where I can pick it up, you will do so.”  Viral smirked and shifted his weight, chuckling.  “Remember, Deadlock, I value two things in the universe more than anything.  Staying close to the Decepticons, and keeping on top of the information game.  As long as you keep me satisfied on the second, I won’t feel the overwhelming need to fulfill the first.  In short, I own you now.”  He suddenly turned cheerful, as if this entire conversation was one of the normal ones they used to have at the oil houses back on New Kaon.  “See you later, Deadlock!  I’ll keep in touch!”

The card blinked out as the circuit inside overloaded and fizzled out.  Of course it was programmed to erase itself as soon as it was viewed.  Viral was an expert when it came to the spy business.

Drift would have wondered how he ever got into the dojo with no one noticing, but things were so hectic with the opening a solar away that it wasn’t farfetched.  Besides, this was what he was pretty much sparked for.  He talked for megacycles back on New Kaon about how his creators raised, trained, and groomed him for the sole purpose of information gathering.  And Deadlock he’d never questioned it.  Viral was a flier with an olfactory sensor for where he could get the juiciest news the Decepticons could hold over whoever the subject was.  By all means, he was supposed to give the information to the Ministry of Intelligence to be processed, sorted, and kept for use.  However, the cheeky black and green stealth mech betrayed the lack of badge-loyalty he was supposed to have for money and security from the Decepticons a long time ago.  It only seemed natural to Deadlock, who saw a small mech with many of his parts made fragile to help him be as stealthy as possible.

_“We’re **friends**.”_

Drift was actually kind of surprised Viral still considered him as such.  With his loyalty to the Decepticons he thought the spy would sell him out in a klik.  But he was actually giving him a _chance_.  Sure, he was blackmailing him to do it, but in his own twisted way that was the closest to truly caring he supposed he could expect.  Perhaps that meant there was some hope.

Drift shook the thoughts from his helm and dropped the card into a drawer.  He didn’t have time to think of all this, though it definitely killed the buzz from his earlier excitement.  He had too much to do while they were opening their doors.  Viral would get back in touch with him, he had no doubt about that.  But he’d deal with it when it happened.

For now, Drift had a new lifecycle to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for After the War: Drift, guys! Keep an eye open for the next installment, After the War: First Aid!


End file.
